


Apple Blossom On The Bough

by freddiejoey



Category: Arthur of the Britons
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:34:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23820898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freddiejoey/pseuds/freddiejoey
Summary: The Song Of Llewellyn
Kudos: 1





	Apple Blossom On The Bough

Apple Blossom on the Bough - Prologue 

You would be past your half century now

Grizzled like me I suppose

A little weather-beaten – or perhaps more than a little.

Battle-scarred too –although never battle-weary

For you were a born soldier.

Yet, somehow, hard as I try, the pieces of your seasoned mosaic always splinter in my mind.

There, you are always burnish-haired, always milk-skinned, always youthful and lithe.

And laughing.

Your laugh made my soul smile.

Truly, my life is a blessed one.

Rich in happiness.

Gilded by love.

Still, I will never cease missing you each day

And, in my mind Llywie, you are forever young.

Apple Blossom - Part 1  


  
When Kai has been with us for about a year and my mother gone for a few seasons, one of Tugram’s younger sisters is to be married. An agreeable match - her groom’s a fine, strong warrior from Cornwall and bride and groom are already fond of each other. So the village prepares to celebrate and the general mood is merry and festive.

While Llud’s busy helping Tugram hang vine wreathes at the wedding grove, I decide to teach my big brother a popular marriage ballad. Kai possesses a pleasing voice and he’s eager to learn as many Celtic customs as quickly as possible. After all, this is his home now and fitting in is no easy business for a flaxen-haired Saxon. Though really I cannot see the problem through others’ mean-spirited eyes – to know Kai is to love him.

Anyway, we sit on the longhouse table and I softly sing the verses.

Be brave my love  
The time has come  
To cross the silver sea

The fragrant air  
The apple blossoms  
Have all been beckoning

And there we'll stand  
Looking out upon the world that we've made  
All fear will be gone  
When we reach the shores of love

You'll be greeted there  
By maidens fair  
under apple blossom on the bough

In the garden  
They will braid your hair  
With violets and rosemary………

Smiling, Kai soon gets the rhythm and sings along. Tapping our entwined fingers against the wood to keep the beat. We laugh together and begin once more. Inordinately pleased at our success as would-be minstrels.

The doors fly open and Llud stands there. Our father’s face is pale and set and his whole body trembling with some powerful emotion. Rage and gall I judge then – though I would give you a much different answer now.

Striding toward us, he speaks in a low, vehement voice – no less authoritative for its quiet tone. “That bloody song………..it may be sung outside this longhouse and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I never want to hear it inside these four walls again or I will leather you both until you cannot sit. Is that clear?”

Llud’s unwavering gaze is fierce blue fire and meekly Kai and I nod. We have no inkling of how we’ve offended – however we won’t argue with Llud. He is the best of fathers, yet his threats of leatherings will certainly turn into promises if we challenge him.

Then Llud quickly calms, as he often does when his first rush of fury is spent, and he sighs heavily. “Alright, we won’t speak of it any more. You’re good boys who are willing to heed and obey. Run along now and go lend Ana and Lenni a hand carrying the food out to the trestles……….and mind you don’t nibble the sweetmeats. Very tempting though it be………”

So, relieved to have escaped with simply a tongue-lashing, Kai and I do as we’re bid and indeed the sweetmeats are delicious and it is a splendid wedding.

And we also heed and obey. Never again do me and my Kai sing of apple blossom on the bough within the longhouse walls. 

They come swirling out of a grey mist like a thick, stagnant, funereal pall. Fragments of memory masquerading as malevolent will -o’-the-wisps. All the times I have failed those I love and who love me.

No, not failed. That is too kindly. It is more than that – so much more.

Left them stricken and heartsick and desolate by my actions – or lack of. By my unbridled belief that I know better, am wiser, see farther.

When in truth, I know naught, am ignorant, see a void.

Rowena’s tormented eyes when I calmly told her about Kai and me and then looked upon her plight with seeming indifference.

Kai’s bone-deep, soul-scourged misery at the Giant’s Dam.

Then Benedicta………..

And before and since – my wilful obstinacy inflicting hurt and sorrow for no good cause beyond my own bullheaded belief that I am always right.

A familiar, harsh, vengeful laugh wafts through the glacial air, chilling my very marrow……..Hoxel…………that murderous bastard………..damn him to the hollow caverns of hell……………his boot pounds viciously into my stomach and I feel something rupture…………..as venom and fear and guilt roar inside me……….and, somewhere out of the encroaching darkness, Llud’s long-ago, placatory words float toward me, etched on a shining silver ribbon: ‘Vengeance? You’ll never know until you lose someone very close to you. Someone you love. And then a terrible hate burns inside you. A hate that pushes out reason. Consumes you … just hate … anguish.’

That’s when I start pleading for a forgiveness which I am now certain will never come………

  
Apple Blossom - Part 2 

I wake up with a decent fright – well, you would too if someone butted you violently in the chest, sobbing all the while that ‘I’m sorry and it will not ever happen again, that’s a pledge, my word as a warrior, please believe me, please.’ Especially as that someone is your beloved little brother who still has scabbing scalp wounds and cracked ribs from Hoxel’s onslaught and is also rather skeletal after a recent brutal bout of fever. Indeed half the village is still suffering the cadaverous aftermath of the sweating sickness.

Arthur though, already in such a weakened state – weaker I think than even Lenni judged – is lean as a rail and slow to heal. It’s something that’s beginning to plague me with grim concern.

Ask me a few weeks ago and I would have given you a fairly cheerful reply. Yes, Arthur may have been more bones than skin and pallor-pale. But he was also straining at the bit to return to his usual busy routine and constantly trying to escape Lenni and Rowena’s vigilant stewardship. Chafing and cajoling.

These last several days however – there’s been a worrisome shift. Arthur’s pensive and preoccupied.

Not withdrawn in any forbidding fashion I hasten to make clear. He’s loving with me. Tender to Rowena. Gentle toward Llud and Lenni and the children.

Yet, somewhere an awry note is being plucked – strings too slack or too tight or simply threadbare…….

Nor am I the only so troubled. I saw the speculative glances that Llud cast Arthur at supper last night when our father had to repeat the same question about the village boys’ weapons training thrice before he got an adequate reply. Usually the question wouldn’t even be needed because Arthur would tell us his thoughts as a matter of course. Seek our opinions certainly, but have firm convictions of his own. Yet, if he had told Llud that the boys should be furnished with shields of cobwebs and swords of gauze, I don’t believe that Llud would have been that startled.

Alright, eventually we ascertained that it’s time to replace their wooden weapons with blunted armaments. For a leader of Arthur’s habitual alacrity though………..

What could be regarded as trifling in others, is telling when it comes to Arthur. He is the most resolute and self-assured and certain of us all.

It’s why he’s such an indomitable leader of the Celtic alliance.

It’s inextricably bound up with why I love him more than my life and he is the love of my life.

It simply makes him my Arthur.

If it wasn’t still so crisp out and Arthur not so gaunt, I would have asked for his company while I walked the palisade. Some cosy hand-holding under the stars and delicious kissing amid the moonlight-shadows has always been an extremely effective elixir.

Instead I tramped around by myself. Nerves jangling and breath forming ghostly white swirls on the brisk wind. Finding fault with every sentry’s diligence, spear and standpoint. ‘Yes my lord Kai……..my apologies………it will be attended to at once……..put to the whetstone at sunrise……..’

They’ll be murmuring behind their hands that I’m becoming as persnickety as Arthur.

As much of a stickler as Arthur usually is – and therein lays the uneasy rub.

Fucking Hoxel. Killing that hellish bastard and ridding the world of his pestilential stench was the best day’s work my axe ever wrought.

Three seasons ago I almost died from the ferocious wound he bequeathed me. Leaving a great gaping hole where my left side once was, blooming with splintered bone and a bleeding harvest of entrails.

Of course it was Lenni and Llud’s stringent nursing that saved and healed me. But, on the night after I was brought home, when I hung on to life by a thread finer than spider’s silk, it was Arthur’s words that kept me tethered to this earth.

Heard through a haze of relentless, flame-scarlet pain.

Hewn on my heart and cleaving to my soul.

“I love you…. Fight my Kai fight…….you cannot leave me.”

So I did not, could not – and now it is my turn to help Arthur mend fully. In mind and body. Restoring both his spirits and his athleticism. And I thought that I was – we all were – and that things were looking somewhat rosy. Soon the days will be enkindling. Snowdrops signalling the hope of spring, bluebells beginning to awaken. Song thrushes starting to sing and apple blossom unfurling on the bough.

Except……..and floundering near the store hut, I bumped straight into Llud on his way to Olwen’s. His face was drawn with anxiety and his good hand gripped my shoulder with firm purpose. “Tend your brother Kai – ensure he sleeps well tonight. There’s something amiss………..if he still seems too distracted in a few days, we’ll have to delve a little deeper. I’m saying a prayer to Arianrhod that’s it’s simply a touch of winter-bound melancholy.”

Llud smiled softly and walked on. Our father petitioning the Keeper of the Silver Wheel of Stars. A tactic for warding off dire misfortune. My nerves splintered like crackling frost.

Inside Arthur was pensively loitering beside the fire and I decided it was best he loiter toward his sheepskins. Nothing worthwhile was ever accomplished by weary soldiers.

Lenni threw me a knowing look and Rowena tenderly kissed Arthur. “Darling, you and Kai would be doing us an enormous favour if you took the boys to bed. Lenni and I can settle the girls and soak the eels in bruet for tomorrow.”

Slowly Arthur stretched and stroked her cheek and nodded. Apparently untroubled by her obvious ruse to get him into the sleeping chamber earlier than usual. Seeing that the eels for the soup had been merrily soaking since noon.

And we did indeed have some nice cossetting time among the fleeces and a few of those exquisite kisses I’d been craving before Arthur swiftly fell asleep, his head pressed against my heart.

Soon after I drifted off too. Reassured by his warm body in my arms and the peaceful sound of our sons’ breathing. Perhaps I had been fretting over what would all seem less weighty come sunrise………

Remind me to join my entreaties to Llud’s. ‘ Keeper of the Silver Wheel, the stars in heaven turn bright, Great Mother of the Celtic Fire, the bards sing of your intercession, Arianrhod of starry night, May your wheel turn on and on…..’

Tumbling from sound sleep to a grey dawn. Wrenched from lovely dreams of butt-naked Arthur wrapping his legs around my waist in a summer-sparkling creek, by Arthur’s wild weeping and tossing.

Desperately, I smooth back Arthur’s cropped hair and make soothing noises.

While Theo and Cedric and Luc peer at us, wide-eyed and frightened. Baby Shannyn screams in her cradle at the top of her lusty lungs, alarmed by her father’s distress. Kaitlin and little Maeve fly through the bedroom door, probably thinking that the village is under attack.

Rowena leaps out of Llud’s bed where she’s spent the night. Hastily sweeping Shannyn up as she runs. Clasping Arthur’s hand and murmuring endearments.

Over Arthur’s tousled black head, my gaze meets Lenni’s.

Hers is sorrowful – and more, grief-stricken.

Ice coats my belly and glazes my blood.

Apple Blossom - Part 3 

Pragmatic matters first. Arthur calms soon enough. Reassuring Rowena – “I’m alright my sweet – nothing but a bad dream.” Reassuring me – “I’m alright my heart – nothing but a nightmare.” Reassuring the startled children. “That will teach me to have too many comfits at supper.”

I don’t believe a solitary word of it.

However, Lenni signals earnestly with her wise brown eyes and I help her herd the little ones out to breakfast. Leaving Rowena suckling Shannyn and talking quietly to Arthur. Commonplace, everyday things. Kaitlin’s palfrey and the next village feast day and the likely odds that Mark will start feuding with Ambrose again over ancient boundaries come finer weather.

Things to soothe and steady.

Truly, I’m glad that Rowena has the task because I’m still rather unsteady. To be woken so abruptly by Arthur’s disconsolate weeping……

Firmly Lenni takes charge. Handing me a knife and a wad of bread. Gesturing to the children to get bowls and cups. Signing warily at me against her skirts where the hawk-eyed nestlings won’t see.

“Dearest………Llud’s concerned and Rowena worrying herself frantic……….He should be feeling stronger………..more spirited………spring’s almost here and the wounds of Arthur’s body are healing clean……..sometimes though, as physical strength returns, the mind has to grapple with feelings that have remained dormant while the body strived to become sound again…………often they’re feelings of regret and guilt………I believe that’s what’s afflicting Arthur……..He’s been in a headlong hurry to get well and his mind is more exhausted than he knows…….. ”

One fact about our clever Lenni that many do not glean is how commonsense and practicality are as much her watchwords as herbs and potions. A true Celt in that regard. Down-to-earth and matter-of-fact. She may cast the runes, yet she also listens intuitively to what her level head tells her.

Of course she’s right. I sat at Arthur’s side and heard him mutter about culpability and remorse as he sweated in the fever’s delirium. Afterwards, he spoke of it rather sparingly and I consoled him that he had nothing with which to reproach himself. Clearly I should have delved deeper as Llud says. Taken further time to succour Arthur. Perhaps then he wouldn’t be suffering grievous nightmares.

I’ve been a bloody, slipshod fool……

Now seeing my distress, Lenni gives me the bowls to fill with bread and preserves and fills my heart with hope.

“Since there’s little more I can do beyond salves and dressings, why don’t you take Arthur riding the boundaries this afternoon when you go? It’s early for him to be back on a horse – earlier than I would have deemed safe……..” Playfully her lips quirk. “But you’ve ridden him during the last weeks and there’s been no cracked ribs. I’m sure the fresh air will do Arthur the world of good too……”

You see why she so deserves the laughing, relieved kiss that I plant on her pretty mouth. Before Lenni suddenly rushes over to the slop bucket behind the corner curtain and is violently sick. As I rub her back and murmur that it’s all in the best of causes.

Yes, mea culpa, there was a certain wintry afternoon when the salutary eagle stones were neglected because………..well, no, you don’t actually need to know that. And really there’s no mea culpa about the situation either. Another precious longhouse child will be as loved and cherished and welcome as the others.

Like Shannyn’s recent arrival, it evokes life’s miracles – especially as we’ve felt the feathers of death’s malevolent wings sweep over us all during the last year.

By the time the children and I have eaten and Lenni has settled her mutinous belly with a ginger brew, Rowena appears. Ravenously biting into an apple and nodding meaningfully at us – Arthur it seems is feeling more himself again.

Before Arthur follows. Thin and wan. His face still nothing but jutting bony planes, sharp-edged and peaked. However......

I sigh happily. He’s the most beautiful being in the world and he’s mine and this afternoon we’ll be riding together beside the river and toward the estuary. Nothing could be sweeter.

Besides, I get a lingering kiss and a tender “I love you my Kai” before I depart for the boys weapons training, so what more could I ask from this getting-better-every-moment day?

Arthur is cosily ensconced near the fire with mead and bannocks and quill and parchment. Writing letters to Mark and Dirk and Ambrose. All be well.

Outside I’m startled to find last night’s gate wardens waiting in a yawning, deferential huddle near the longhouse. Why aren’t they abed since they’ve been relieved by the dawn sentries?

Nervously they smile and display their newly-honed spears. That’s right – I did deliver quite a ferocious tongue-lashing on the subject of maintaining blades and discipline. Therefore I maintain a solemn expression, soberly commend their efforts and dismiss them to their dreams and sheepskins.

It’s commonly said that blood will out, yet rearing and love also. My censorial skills have certainly been bequeathed straight from Llud and Arthur.

As have my dexterity at weapons training. I may often fight with the axe, but it has been my father and brother’s forbearance that has allowed me to do so. Both have always challenged the many scathing comments and contemptuous mockery from other Celtic warriors.

Today the village boys are proud to be using real blunted weapons instead of their erstwhile wooden swords and avidly attend to what Llud and I demonstrate. ‘The axe is different from the sword. It’s heavier. Its angles of attack are less varied. But when it strikes, its bite is usually more fatal…………… You had the strength, but not the angle. Try again …………… You mustn’t let the enemy read your mind.’

So, a rewarding morning’s work and then home for the noon meal. Arthur is just finishing eating as Llud and enter. Regarding his empty bowl with a furrowed brow as if it’s somehow troubling, before Rowena swiftly whisks it away – frowning at us over Arthur’s shoulder. He’s obviously still abstracted.

Well, I’ve got a sure cure for that broodiness.

Smiling brightly, I stroke his cheek tenderly with my knuckles. “Little brother. Lenni says that it’s alright for you to come riding the boundaries this afternoon. Since you’re mending now. We can follow the river at least to where it turns south.”

Slowly rising, Arthur brushes his lips across my hair. When he speaks his voice lacks any sort of keen edge – any sort of cheer or conviction. Indeed it’s as flat as those dull spears I reproached last night. When, just a few weeks ago, he had been relentlessly impatient to be back on horseback. Almost driving Lenni to lunacy with the restless ants in his breeches.

“Not today my Kai. I’m………tired and my head aches. I think I’ll just rest a while.”

And Arthur goes into the sleeping chamber, wraps himself in his blankets and closes his eyes.

Apple Blossom - Part 4 

I ride the boundaries with Tugram and three of the younger warriors – Ardal and Conn and Rylan. It’s chill on the ledge at the back of the village, the wind sharp and fierce. I try and convince myself that it would be too raw for Arthur – that it's better he stay beside the warm fire.

Pretence and prattle Kai – fool and coward is all you be.

Of course Arthur would have come to no harm well-wrapped in his fur cloak and cantering steadily through familiar territory. He’s the best horseman in the Celtic alliance.

You just don’t want to face the unpalatable fact that you’re utterly uncertain what to do about his introspection.

Musing as we scout southwards, I realize that Rowena gleaned something was askance a few weeks ago – certainly before I marked anything wrong with Arthur. The unerring instinct of a woman deeply in love - well, sometimes it takes female intuition to fathom the heart’s labyrinths.

Llud often claims there are more sides to a woman’s argument than acorns on an oak. Likewise their prescience is as acute as our father’s renowned twitching nose - and Rowena and Lenni more than most.

A warning knell should have tolled in my mind too when Karn was visiting.

Karn and his youngest son Evan brought a cart full of fresh arms. Magnificent workmanship and the best-tempered metal. Always a welcome visitor, I saw the quick flash of alarm in Karn’s eyes when he saw Arthur’s gauntness. Just as quickly stifled. Like all good soldiers worth their salt, Karn knows when to appear calm and unconcerned.

Lifting two shining new swords from under the hide covering, Karn arched a blonde brow jauntily at Arthur. “For old times’ sake. See what you think of the weight and the tone.” So, while Evan and Rowena and I leaned against the wooden rails and watched, Karn and Arthur feinted around the sword ring where once the contest was real. Deftly ducking and weaving – though I could readily recognize that Karn was being cautious. Forked lightning rather than mercurial quicksilver

Still I felt reassured. Arthur was moving nimbly enough and seemed to be savouring the challenge. Laughing amiably when Karn turned awkwardly and his weapon tumbled into the mud.

However Rowena sighed heavily beside me and her gaze was troubled. She said nothing there lest Evan overhear – but, later, when we happened to be alone together in the longhouse bedroom, she put a firm hand on my arm. “Kai dear………it may be nothing yet……….. I’m a little uneasy about Arthur………..though I can’t quite say what’s wrong……….perhaps it’s simply weariness as he regains his strength. This afternoon I expected him to reproach Karn, even in banter. Usually Arthur would be demanding Karn use every trick and headlong speed, whether he’s weakened or not. When we could all tell Karn was swerving too slowly……..”

Hearing Arthur’s voice out beside the hearth, inviting Karn and Evan to help themselves at the mead barrel, Rowena gathered Shannyn up into her arms and kissed my cheek. “I’ll discuss this with Lenni when we have a quiet moment. Llud too. I hope I’m just being an overanxious wife – better sound than sorry though. If you notice anything ……… astray ……..talk to Arthur please.”

Not wanting to distress her further, I smiled to solace Rowena and pledged my vigilance. Thinking her solicitude misjudged.

Now, as the breeze whistles bleakly and low grey clouds huddle over the estuary, I acknowledge that I’ve been the one missing the target by leagues.

Rowena is right.

Probably I’ve also been lulled into a false sense of complacency because Arthur has been ever-tender toward me. Our lovemaking has never been so joyous – albeit we’ve had to be careful. If anything had ensued to hinder Arthur’s recovery, Lenni would have had my guts for a gusset – completely smitten with me though she is.

Still, it’s been the sweetest of times. Both of us having earned the luck of the devil or the blessing of the gods and cheated the grave. We’ve been celebrating the life and love we share with exquisite rapture – take the memorable day when Rowena was……..ensnared in Llud’s cupboard while Arthur and I were………..ensnared within each other. The day little Shannyn arrived at full tilt.

Yes, that’s all been perfectly wondrous………

Tugram interrupts my thoughts, shouting that we should just ride around the nearest boundary stones and then head home. Dusk is coming on fast. I nod and we gallop back along the river. We’ve been scouting most of the afternoon and there’s the scent of rain on the crisp air.

Tomorrow, I will get Llud alone and seek his counsel. Discuss what can be done with Rowena and Lenni.

Fuck……….Arthur should be riding here at my side. Blue eyes sparkling. Beautiful mouth smiling in the way that makes my knees weak and my heart sing.

The very next instance – as the spears come winging from the woods and berserker bays howl forth around us - I’m forever grateful that he’s not.

  
Apple Blossom - Part 5 

There are seven of them and we kill four. A Saxon party doing some scouting of their own, chancing upon us and deciding to turn assassins. Maybe they recognise who I am by my flaxen hair amid the other dark Celtic warriors and think to win favour with Cerdig by gifting him my traitorous butcher’s head on a spear.

They fight fiercely but we fight more so. And we are fortunate – an axe wound to Conn’s leg that will need burning and Lenni’s ministrations, but otherwise we are relatively unscathed. Cuts and bruises and relief.

We cover the corpses with undergrowth – someone can return and fashion a pyre tomorrow – and herd the three prisoners at sword point. Of the latter, two are hardly past boyhood. Pallid and frightened. Disarmed early in the skirmish and roped together. Tangled curls unable to mask their tears. Huddling under their fleecy jackets like terrified sheep. The third one is much older – probably older than Llud. Tall and broad. Grizzled hair and sullen blue eyes. A hardened warrior clad in a rough wolf pelt. He battled me like a demon.

None of them will answer even the most mundane questions, even though I can tell they understand the words I speak well enough. They’re certainly familiar with the language of the Celts – that’s obvious from a few telling gestures the boys make toward each other after I’ve finished speaking. No, they’re remaining silent from fear……… or from hatred and obstinacy.

Our eldest Saxon captive looks at me sideways with venom and gall as Rylan and I tether him to my horse for the journey back to our village. Yes, he knows who I am alright. Once he spits on the ground toward my boots. His aim is true and the spittle lands right at my feet. However I’m weary and worried and I simply want to get home and I want Arthur. I give the Saxon’s bonds a vicious tug and we set out.

Llud is waiting at the palisade when we ride in. Immediately I ask him with my eyes how matters are concerning Arthur and our father almost imperceptibly shakes his head. Grim dismay pulling at the corners of his lips.

Then Llud squares his shoulders and gestures at Conn, who is grimacing and being supported by Tugram. “Kai, go tell Lenni we require her skills in the healer’s hut and the rest of you, go wash and eat and rest. Thank the gods we have no dead to mourn this day………… I’ll see to the prisoners – take them to their hut and set the guards.”

Decisively Llud loops their tethers around his silver hand. Calling for one of the gate wardens to accompany him. At that moment an icy gust of wind whirls off the lake, unfurling Llud’s cape and lifting the warrior-Saxon’s granite-coloured hair away from his neck.

Half-turned aside, giving Arbelio’s reins to a stable-hand and fretting to see Arthur, I swing hastily about. Our father has gone pale as new milk – for a heartbeat, I’m sure he’s going to topple and bring the prisoners down in a disorderly heap with him.

Yet, I blink and it could almost be a trick of the fading light. Without further fuss, Llud leads the captives away. The two boys stumbling miserably. The older Saxon hostile and disdainful. All three still mute as Lenni.

Maybe it’s the cold weather getting into Llud’s shoulder. His bones sometimes pain and creak – though he won’t thank you if you offer your kindly commiserations for the discomfort. It’s to be ignored and scorned.

Anyway, I’m in a tearing hurry to reach the longhouse and finally do. Everything is hushed – Theo and Cedric and Luc playing quietly with their wooden knucklebones, Lenni and Rowena washing the dirty supper basins. Then I see why. Arthur is already asleep, sprawled in his great wooden chair near the fire. On his lap he has little Maeve and leaning against his knees, Kaitlin. There’s also his large Aesopica open between them so obviously Arthur has started reading before becoming drowsy. Now Kaitlin is murmuring the story of the wolf and the partridge to Maeve, careful not to rouse her slumbering father.

No wonder Llud looks grim.

Lenni, of course, keeps stroking me solicitously when I tell her about the skirmish, reassuring herself that I’m really unharmed – before hurrying off to tend Conn. Rowena serves my pheasant and leeks, glances toward Arthur – and her pretty blue eyes glisten with helpless tears.

We hold hands while I eat supper. Clasping each other for succour – and for hope.

What the fuck are we going to do?

Until Llud comes bustling back, gives us each a task to do………..and changes everything forever.

“Lenni’s sleeping in the healer’s hut tonight. Watching over Conn. Rowena love, could you put the children to bed please? I’d like a quiet word alone with Kai and Arthur ……..I’ll explain tomorrow.” Llud smiles gently and kisses Rowena’s cheek. Immediately she does as he bids – gathering together knucklebones and book and boys and girls. They have an instinctive trust, Llud and Rowena – forged through their mutual devotion to Arthur, sealed by six legendary measures of silver.

I softly rouse Arthur, who comes awake yawning and stretching. “My heart? I must have dozed………..the fire’s warmth I suppose. All well at the boundaries?” Slowly I slide on to the edge of his chair and slide my arm around his waist – far too willowy these days. “There was a skirmish. None of our men killed – though Conn took a decent wound to the leg. Six Saxons –and we’ve brought home three prisoners. You can decide how to deal with them beloved.” There – something new for Arthur to mull over tomorrow. At least, it’s a beginning.

Very calmly, Llud fills our mead cups and sinks into the chair opposite us – a high-backed chair that was once Travon’s.

Very deliberately our father takes a sip, looks across the hearth at us and sighs.

It’s a sigh that seems wrung from the depths of his soul………..and the abyss of memory.

“The prisoners are what I need to discuss – or rather one of them. The older man………..I recognized him tonight from a scar on his neck…………a scar I only ever saw once long ago, but will never forget………..can never forget……………..”

Llud closes his eyes for a moment and when he opens them again, they’re both fire and flint.

“He is the man who slew my brother.”

Apple Blossom - Part 6

  
We’re singing as we rode toward Cornwall – despite the early snow falls and the glacial cold. Singing because we’re young and lusty and we’re warriors and some of us are in love.

By rights, we should have set out days ago on this journey to discuss defensive matters with King Aberthol and do trade. But there’s been Pict raids and Saxon forays to delay us. Then a fortnight of relentless rain. Followed by an unexpected visit by King Athel, so hospitality had to be extended. When it started to snow while Athel and his party finally cantered away, I despaired of ever enjoying a Cornish jaunt. Nevertheless, here we are. Snugly-wrapped against the chill and high-spirited as hares in spring.

There are six of us. Travon, our bright-headed, brave-hearted young chieftain. Formidably clever and resolutely steadfast. (Qualities inherited by his indomitable son who is also destined to be mine.) Yet with such a wicked sense of fun under his unyielding exterior. (A trait bequeathed to his little, raven-haired grandson who calls me Grandad.)

Tugram gallops along, relishing the crispness. I am a few years past my twentieth summer and he still a few years away from his. Already he’s one of the most fearless soldiers belonging to Travon’s warrior band and canny with it.

Brice who’s considered the handsomest man in the village – if not throughout the Celtic lands. Another fine, wary soldier. However, not as you might expect, a womanizer.

March, the oldest of our merry gang and the only fellow present who’s stood before the Abbott. Calm, brave, chivalrous. You could faithfully trust March with your life and I often have. His smile is like a beacon of hope. (It’s a smile I still see every day. The second grandson we share gifts it to me each sunrise at breakfast.)

And the sixth member of our surprisingly sweet-sounding group is the person I love more than any other in this world.

Because he is kind and gentle and courageous and a better man than I will ever be.

Because he’s Llywellen Afallon, map Nial Gwrlais – my older-by-one-year-big-brother.

My Llywie.

In truth, we’re hardly alike. Llywie’s hair is dark and mine nut-brown. He favours Nial and I our mother Armes. He’s extremely comely while I’m decidedly homely. But no brothers were ever closer and I would be utterly lost without him at my side.

Chuckling, Llywie shakes the snowflakes from his thick curls and brings his horse closer to March’s. His brilliant blue eyes dancing. “So March. Over four seasons since you and the beauteous Ana were wed. I don’t see her rounding with child yet………don’t you know how?” Llywie throws him a seemingly innocent glance, lips quirking mischievously.

“Ah, very funny Llyw.” March good-naturedly cuffs Llywie and guides his mount carefully around a rocky outcrop. “You just mind that you know how when the time comes because your time’s coming soon. Anyway, I was the one who showed Travon how it was done………..remember, those shepherd’s daughters out past Druid’s Rock. Mine had huge udders Travon and yours had none.”

Travon pulls his hood tighter over his glossy, red-gold head and grimaces. “Yes, but yours smelt sour and frowsy and I don’t mean her petticoats……….At least the younger sister I tumbled knew about the virtues of hot water and soap.” He grins triumphantly at March and gallops further along our winding path. Soon we’ll be leaving the shelter of the woods and skirting the western quagmires that suck you down if you venture too far in. Lastly, across the misty moor where giants once roamed and there lies Aberthol’s encampment.

Tugram gives a rollicking bark of laughter – as loud and idiosyncratic as his singular, granite-rough voice. “Perhaps we should chance our luck with a few pleasing Cornish maidens eh Brice? Llud? Toss back some horns of good mead, fill our bellies with boar, dice a while and then go a-seeking warm teats. What say you both?”

Politely Brice smiles and nods – albeit I can tell that he’s being more courteous than enthusiastic. Probably he will prowl for a woman tonight and, of course, he’ll have no trouble finding one to fuck. Indeed, they fall at his shapely feet, tongues lolling, cunts afire. However, it’s merely scratching an itch as far as Brice is concerned – he’s not really smitten with any of them. We’re all aware that his heart’s long been bestowed elsewhere.

Regarding my amorous prospects ……..well, if a woman’s on offer and willing, I certainly won’t say no. I’m not betrothed and I’m as horny as any other young man possessing a cock that can stiffen and balls that can brim.

Musing on our village girls and the idea of one day taking a wife, there’s just a single pretty little thing who’s ever struck my fancy – that’s Olwyn. I don’t think that I’m in love with her. Actually, I’ve never been in love – no lightning bolts or weak knees or sweaty palms to speak of. But Olwyn is beautiful and gentle and affectionate. Exactly the sort of girl with whom you could be content. Build a life together and raise playful whelps.

Yet, that’s still more dream than certainty. I haven’t seriously contemplated marriage. Besides, Olwyn has been promised to Perry, another of my boyhood friends, since they were children. There endeth the matter.

The wind sharpens as we emerge from the forest. More snow on the way and the horses eager to reach their nightly stalls and the reward of a windfall. Cantering on the verge of the sodden marshlands, Llywie keeps pace with me and lowers his voice. Letting the others amble on ahead. I look over at him and smile curiously. “What is it? Something vexing you?” Llywie returns the smile, cheeks glowing rosy as summer grapes on the vine. “Nothing vexing, no Llud…………something to discuss when we have a quiet moment though. I’ve decided that as soon as this weather clears……….it might be usual to wait till spring……….but there seems no sound reason……….I know Glevum is a day and a half ride there and a day and a half back……….It doesn’t have to be Glevum………Abbott Morpeth could reach the village by dinner time on the same day………”

Frowning, I try and unravel this rambling skein. Llywie is generally so forthright when he speaks. Spring……….Glevum………..the Abbott………

Sometimes I am such a simpleton.

As meaning finally dawns, I snap my fingers and crow with glee. “You’ve decided to bring the marriage forward? That’s wonderful – and you’re right. Why wait when it’s only sensible to get matters settled? Llywie, I couldn’t be more pleased. More happy for you.”

Reaching out, I wrap his gloved fingers around mine and grin. Naturally, by now, the others have all heard my glad tidings and are all gathering around with hearty congratulations and affable jests. Llywie is blushing and I’m beaming.

I mentioned earlier that some of us are in love. Well, not me as I’ve said nor Travon or Tugram. March is – deeply, tenderly in love with his bewitching, feisty healer-wife Ana. Brice is – hopelessly, helplessly besotted with Travon’s lovely young ward Catrin, as she is with him. But Catrin is betrothed to Yorath the Jute and will be his bride before the snows fall again next winter. A valuable alliance sealed and a pact for peace sworn – Travon may feel sympathy for the enraptured young couple, yet sentiment will never be allowed to override practical common sense. Catrin is bound for Yorath’s kingdom and Yorath’s bed and Brice will have to mend his hankering heart elsewhere.

And Llywie is in love. Has been since he plighted his troth before last Yuletide. It was an arrangement bargained between Llywie and the girl’s father Tomos. Nevertheless, I know that Llywie has watched her grow and bided his wooing till she was of age. She’s a cheerful lass and amiable enough. I’m sure they’ll be at ease and comfortable together.

Her name is Cerys.

It’s Travon who begins the singing again – in light of Llywie’s happy announcement. Earlier we were serenading about cuckoos and meadows and white-necked swans. Now, as Travon bursts into gleeful song – he has a rich, true voice, that his son, our son, will also possess – and the rest brashly join in, it’s a beloved marriage ballad.

Sweet and lyrical. One of my favourites.

Be brave my love  
The time has come  
To cross the silver sea

The fragrant air  
The apple blossoms  
Have all been beckoning

And there we'll stand  
Looking out upon the world that we've made  
All fear will be gone  
When we reach the shores of love

You'll be greeted there  
By maidens fair  
under apple blossom on the bough

In the garden  
They will braid your hair  
With violets and rosemary………

  
Apple Blossom - Part 7 

  
The best thing about Llywie marrying Cerys is that there will a woman in our hut again at long last. Now, I’m not saying this just because it will be nice to have someone else doing the cooking and sewing and cleaning – though it will and although Llywie and I can both sew a fair seam, roast a good fowl and use a broom deftly.

But it will also be pleasing to have a pretty face around the place and a feminine touch flitting around our rather spartan goods and chattels. It’s been almost a decade of summers since we were last so indulged……..

Our parents were Nial Gwrlais and Armes. Llywie has Armes’ striking, dark good looks while I am more plain and rough-hewn like Nial. Nial was a strong warrior and a doting father. I hope I’ve inherited even half that strength and fatherly wisdom. What I remember most about Armes is her warm smile, her warm, always-open arms and her indomitable spirit. She gave Llywie that spirit.

We also shared our hut and hearth with our two grandfathers: Nail’s merry sire Gwrlais and Armes’ sullen father Taren.

Gwrlais taught us to whittle and whistle. Benevolent and charming, he's never without an apt proverb to get the measure of any situation, whether good or ill. Whenever I smile at Gwrlais, I feel a rush of deepest love.

Taren, on the other hand, was perhaps another ten years older than sunny Gwrlais and his opposite in almost every marked way. A seemingly embittered man who had spent years as a slave to a Roman commander and still bore the scars – both on his back and on his heart. Yet, having no son of his own, he passed on his masterful tracking skills to Llywie and me. His lessons may have often been overly harsh – after all, Llywie and I were mere boys. But he saw to it that we were able to competently follow trails that were three months old - and for that, I will be ever-beholden.

Actually, Llywie and I were not the only children of Nial and Armes – though it may seem so from what I say. Their first child was a lively, quick-witted daughter –and their only child for about a dozen summers. Our elder sister Linnet who I can recall weaving tales of faeries and magick and rocking us to sleep beside the fire on winter nights.

Yes, their only child until, one spring, Nial and Armes were blessed with a son. A much greater miracle than any petty loaves and fishes trickery I can tell you.

They named him Llywellen Afallon. Llywellen: lion-like leader. Afallon: of the apple isle, because there was new apple blossom on the bough when he came into the world.

Handsome and hale from the beginning, Llywie brought Nial and Armes unbounded delight.

When I put in an appearance, perhaps a year later, they must have already been sated from enthusiasm and elation because I had no such extravagant names bestowed upon me.

Llud. Just Llud. For the Celtic god of flashing light and binding oaths and blazing revenge. He who is accompanied by an enchanted white stag and a pack of otherworldly, black hounds. Certainly a good, stout name. However, lacking the lyrical qualities of Llywie’s – and mundanely rhyming with thud and mud and cud.

Not a sweet-sounding apple in sight.

We were a happy family. So many of my earliest memories are glided by laughter and girded by joy. Living in such uncertain times, yet we felt certain and secure as we tumbled and grew. That is a gift which I hope to bequeath to my own children.

I was four or five – anyway, high enough to throw stones at the crows while the farmers were sowing – when Linnet fell in love one Beltane while she was visiting our kin in King Athel’s encampment and went away to be married. Off northbound with her young warrior-husband Bevyn. Four or five days ride toward the territories of the Picts where Bevyn had family lands to claim.

Armes’ tears seemed to flow forever at the loss of her daughter. Yet it’s always been the way. The woman shares the life with the man. They are our ‘cup-bearers’ who serve the mead and ‘peace-weavers’ who dare to dream of an end to bloodshed. They are our buttress and our stronghold, no matter how humble our hut.

So Nail was especially tender to Armes and I would crawl into her lap and slide my spindly child’s arms around her neck. But it was Llywie who could most readily coax a tremulous smile from her. And who one day made her laugh once more.

A cherished remembrance that – the sound of my mother’s lilting laughter.

With Linnet gone, Llywie and I grew even closer as we grew older and up. It was a time of increasing savagery and irresolution. The Roman system of law and order was festering. The Roman legions were abandoning our shores as if they be stricken rodents fleeing a floundering ship. Our village chieftain, Travon’s fiery father, and his dauntless soldiers battled maraudering Scots and Pictish raiders – hitherto kept fettered by Roman might.

Nial became warrior first and farmer if the turmoil allowed.

Once, during those stormy years, we had news of Linnet. From a travelling merchant who was able to reassure us that she lived. Was the mother of two little whelps and round with a third. That she looked well and seemed content.

The Aelian Wall fell and the Picts poured through.

Then, after that, never nothing.

Suddenly, death stalked us by day and night. Pestilence blighting our huts and sorrow cleaving our hearts.

Our sister perhaps a ghost of smoke and ashes.

Taren, withering to cadaverous bone and the burial mound. His body like a shrunken child’s in my arms.

Nial, falling to a king boar’s frenzied charge during a summer hunt amid the woods beyond the lake. On a warm day of honeyed sunshine and riotous bluebells and the high chirping of fledgling birds, when no-one had any business dying. But he did.

The winter that followed was severe and the spring rainy. As so often during such wet seasons, our rye grain mouldered and the plague known as ‘devil’s fire’ was rife – and Armes was one of its prey. Suffering its burning afflictions and wild visions and stupor. Llywie and I took turns sitting vigil at her bedside for days until Gwrlais chased us both to our pallets, saying – rightly –that we’d not do anyone any good by becoming exhausted ourselves.

Her spirit took flight quietly while we slept and Gwrlais held her hand. I hope that somehow she knew we were close by.

We watched as Maeve, our village healer, and her young daughter Ana laid out Armes. Tender and reverent. Gently pouring a steady stream of warm water and reciting the traditional benediction prayers: And may the blessing of the rain be on you, may it beat upon your soul and wash it fair and clean, and leave there a shining pool where the blue of paradise shines, and sometimes a star………..

That was the end of my boyhood. A severing as sharp and trenchant as any Saxon axe blow.

Left alone in our denuded hut, Llywie and Gwrlais and me drew together for solace and strength. Outside the gates of our encampment, the world continued to splinter amid lunacy.

First Llewie, then I, were rushed into the war band early to replace seasoned warriors maimed or killed. We were raw and still clumsy, but we could hurl a spear and brandish a sword and our shield arms were steady enough. We would serve – we’d simply have to serve. There was no-one else to call upon.

It became our everyday lives.

Fighting. Scouting. Attacking. Defending. Surviving.

Returning home after days or weeks in the saddle, to Gwrlais’ often tearful welcome. Relishing his hot barley soup instead of sinewy slithers of meat skewered on sticks over smoky fires. Listening to him murmur that it was a miracle we had returned to him once again – he must hammer another chain link into the trunk of the summoning oak tomorrow. On the northern ridge above the village. For luck and thanksgiving.

That was the pattern of our days………our weeks……….our seasons. Ceaseless war and brief homecoming. Until we too were seasoned and battle-scarred and tough as our weathered leather jerkins. Well, I was within and without – Llywie only within, since he was graceful and handsome. Not old-looking before his time like me.

Friends are slain – you learn to bridle the hurt and grieve dry-eyed beside their hasty pyres.

Foes are slaughtered - you learn to smile grimly and feel naught but reparation and relief.

Any other roads lead straight to madness……..

Gradually though treaties are forged, pacts signed, pledges sworn before gods and warbands.

Life remains relentlessly precarious. Yet there are a few more precious evenings to relax beside the fire and sip mead. Speak hesitatingly of the future. Seek a girl. Stroll by the river. Fall in love…….

Which no doubt is why last winter Tomos-the-wheelwright came knocking at our rough-hewn old door proposing a match. Between his pretty daughter Cerys and Llywie. Tomos is elderly and lame. Cerys needs a good strong husband to protect her in the future and Llywie is rather overdue to seek a wife. A fair exchange then (and besides, can there be any other hut in the village that so cries out for womanly attention?)

Of course, there’s also the matter of Llywie’s quiet, yet tenacious courtship that has stretched across several seasons now. He’s besotted and comely little Cerys seems to like him well.

And he’s happy. That’s the greatest blessing of all.

I’ll be proud to be at Llywie’s side when they stand before the Abbott.

  
Apple Blossom - Part 8 

It’s warm and cosy in Aberthol’s longhouse and the King of Cornwall keeps a fine table – and an even finer mead barrel. He’s a formidable warrior and a steady leader. Travon admires him greatly. His wife Lia is beautiful and quick-witted and shrewd – brought up in the Roman traditions of modesty of speech, intelligence and self-reliance.

Their son Mark is a strapping, brown-haired toddler. Though rather loud and querulous too. Utterly spoiled by both parents I warrant. I hope that when Llywie and Cerys have children they’re a little less cantankerous.

Still, it’s certainly pleasant sitting here with such amiable company, enjoying a roaring fire and succulent roast boar and sweet honey wine. Especially as ear-piercing Mark has now fallen asleep on a pile of fleeces near his mother’s chair. Long may his snoozing continue.

Actually Tugram is already snoring beside our rambunctious Cornish prince, worn out by a surfeit of fresh crisp air and adder’s sting. Fondly Travon tucks a cloak around Tugram’s shoulders and bends to replenish his mead cup. “You’re a lucky fellow Aberthol. Such a handsome wife and son. Any man would envy your good fortune.”

Lia reclines her glossy black head elegantly at the compliment and Aberthol grins. Then narrows his eyes. “Luck yes, but timing and enterprise too. I went seeking my good fortune and was rewarded with my lovely Lia’s consent to be my bride. You should follow my lead. High time you were married and fathered a boy of your own.”

Smiling politely, Travon strokes his red-gold beard. “I’m not so sure I want to get married.” (Echoes of what will be said years later in the guest-quarters which are just a stone’s throw from where we now sprawl. Using that same flat, emphatic tone. His boy – by then, my boy – at his most infuriatingly stubborn. “She’d expect me to marry her…………Anyway, when I do it won’t be under pressure.” How I didn’t box his obstinate ears that night……..)

Slowly Travon takes an apple in one hand while Aberthol gives an impatient gesture. “Well, maybe not but you don’t really have a choice. We need healthy children to come after us, to hold on to the precious little we’ve been able to salvage from the stinking rubble that the Romans left behind for us. Lia has a fine sister. Pretty and clever and accomplished. Why don’t you begin there if you so admire my charmed existence?”

Taking a thoughtful bite, Travon smiles with bemusement this time. “That is what I intend to do.” (Reverberations of another evening in another longhouse. My home this time. Pestilence pursuing the livestock of the land. Big brother jesting with little brother: “Perhaps you should pass on this great lore to Cerdig.” The startling reply that has me lifting my face from the milk basin, overcome by astonishment……….not yet fully gleaning the bone-deep anguish that will ensue……..)

Travon crunches again into the apple, relishing our amazement. “I am indeed going to make tender enquiry of this paragon. Your sister Lia …………… I believe she’s called Vala........?"  
  
It is the very first time that I will ever hear the name of the only woman I will ever truly love…………

Then the room erupts amid congratulatory laughter and seemingly helpful suggestions about how to win Vala’s hand. Aberthol crows with delight and Lia claps – looking both elated and tearful. She must feel very affectionately toward her sister. I wonder idly if Vala is as enchanting a beauty as Lia – or if perhaps Vala is more homespun. Akin to me compared to Llywie. Well, time will tell if she accepts Travon’s proposal and I get to view her in the flesh.

March mentions Ana’s liking for trinkets and Llywie offers how much Cerys loves the tiny gold ear-buds he gave her last Beltane. Brice counsels that women approve of men who smell sweet and clean – though he doesn’t exactly specify where.

And of course all this happy noise awakens Tugram who blinks around blearily, grinning at something he’s unsure about but knows to be cheerful news – and Mark who blinks around blearily and screams for Lia at the top of his robust lungs. (Those mighty robust lungs that will one day allow him to become the greatest wrestler alive………in his own exceedingly humble opinion…….)

Later, when the glad tidings have been much toasted in mead and celebrated with much veiled ribaldry that Travon has taken with good-natured humour - when Lia has taken Mark away to bed and Tugram is blissfully snoring once more, we huddle closer to the hearth and arrange tomorrow’s plans.

There are laden packponies to lead and some new livestock to drive homewards. Lively goats and cows and one particular, just-tamed mare that Travon is anxious about. The ice can be slick and treacherous – a careless step, a floundering against the banked snow and those slender dappled legs could well snap. Therefore we reckon what appears the most sensible course of action.

Travon and March, Brice and Tugram will set out at dawn with the packhorses. Llywie and I will wait till its full morning and follow. That way, Damara –the-flighty-mare can be coaxed along as quietly as may be. Besides, Llywie possesses the best skills among us when it comes to having the habit of horses – they instinctively trust his gentle voice.

Amidst such seemingly commonplace details, does the world change forever…….

Finally, Aberthol rises to his feet, yawns and bids us all a smiling good night. He has the beauteous Lia to keep him warm between the sheepskins – though I would safely bet that their strong-willed Mark doesn’t keep to his pallet for long either.

Faithfully-married March and soon-to-be-wed Llywie chastely join Tugram near the fire. Asleep almost before their virtuous heads hit the fleeces.

Which leaves Travon and Brice and me still loitering by the mead barrel. We’re weary and it’s chill out – yet we’re also young and still carefree.

Moreover Travon has a promising tale to share and Cornish girls can be lusty wenches ………I have had certain southern adventures before………

So Travon’s report of an arch-eyed village maiden throwing him coquettish glances this afternoon and pointing out which hut is hers is extremely auspicious. Especially as she ran back to a giggling gaggle of equally arch-eyed friends. Certainly it’s worth donning a cloak and braving the brisk night air for.

Travon’s is a blonde – mine a copperhead – Brice’s has tresses like a raven’s wing.

All three are busty and lusty and bright.

It’s an extraordinarily wonderful end to an extraordinarily agreeable evening.

One of the most memorable evenings I will ever be fated to live……….

Apple Blossom – Part 9

  
Damara-the-flighty-mare actually proves much less capricious than her reputation would indicate. She falls under Llywie’s kindly spell when he offers her a windfall outside Aberthol’s longhouse and is a good, biddable girl from then on. Taking placidly enough to the leading rein and stepping out firmly on the muddy track.

Thank the gods, because both my head and my thighs are rather raw this morning and concentrating on the goats and cows will be a cumbersome task in itself. Helping quell a skittish horse wouldn’t be welcome at all.

Travon and Tugram, March and Brice have already ridden on ahead with the packponies. Brice and Travon appearing rather the worst for wear too.

I think it was almost dawn before we stumbled merrily past Aberthol’s door-wardens again…..

At any rate, Aberthol is chuckling knowingly at me as he wishes Llywie and me godspeed. Lia holds up raucous Mark for us to admire one last time and smiles with distinct bemusement. “Safe journey Llywie………Llud……….Llywie, mind that you don’t shout unless you really need to………it might spook Damara………and rattle your brother’s addled skull….”

She and Llywie share a conspiratorial grin.

A woman in a thousand, Aberthol’s beautiful Queen of the South. Charm and wit and a keen sense of humour . I only hope that Travon will be so blessed in her sister and that Vala will bear him a fine, strong son.

The snow fell thickly again yesterday and the wind is crisp – but we have bellies full of boar and each other’s pleasing company. If we take the journey in steady stages, we can camp overnight among the old Roman ruins at Winter Farmstead – those ancient stone walls provide stout shelter for both man and beast – and reach our village around noon tomorrow.

Llywie has wrapped a dark cloth around his head, over his thick, black curls. He’s been plagued by earache recently and the frosty breezes make it throb. When we get home, he can seek a remedy from Ana. Burnt barley seeds perhaps or boiled white willow.

Now, he looks like an eager, rosy-cheeked boy. Impossibly young to be a seasoned warrior. Hardly old enough soon to be wed.

But it’s that forthcoming wedding I want to discuss as we ride along, herding animals and minding mares. I have thoughts of letting Gwrlais celebrate his elder grandson’s nuptials in grand style and comfort. The best we can do with our rustic fripperies. Christ knows, Gwrlais has had precious little to commemorate for years and he’s the most loving of grandfathers. He deserves some honour.

While I describe my plans, Llywie listens patiently. Travon will allow the marriage feast to take place in his longhouse………..special mead………roast boar………..melt-in-your mouth-venison…………Ana’s delicious Roman cake………..poached fruit and glistening sweetmeats. We’ll have a new cape stitched for Gwrlais – something bright and cheerful, scarlet or sapphire.

And Llywie must have a new shirt, complimenting the colour of Cerys’ bridal gown. Olwyn and Cerys are girlhood friends – I’ll be able to wheedle a hint of the colour out of Olwyn, I’m sure. Well, enough to know if it be green for hope, white for purity or silver for grace.

Nodding agreeably, Llywie guides Damara around a rocky outcrop and waits for me to hustle a recalcitrant goat. “It all sounds very pleasant. No-one has been more attentive than our Gwrlais – without him our hut would have been cold as the burial mound.” He loops the reins tighter about his gloved fingers and chews thoughtfully on his lip. Stares off into the rolling white distance and then throws me an almost whimsical glance.

I bequeath that same wayward nanny a decent prod with my boot and laugh. “What? Are you going to make reference to my carousing last night while you and March slept the sleep of virtue and faith? I’m not betrothed and not likely to be either unless it’s arranged by Gwrlais. You got the looks – I simply have to take what I can seize when it’s on offer. Which isn’t that often when you’re plain as a battle club as I am. Although………seizing sometimes isn’t exactly a hardship.”

That makes Llywie chuckle out loud. “No, that doesn’t concern me. Wolf away at will ………however, you have brought the subject round to where I was heading after a fashion………You seem to undervalue or else……… I don’t quite fathom how you don’t realise……….” Llywie squints at the ice-wreathed trees, seemingly uncertain. Then suddenly turns his horse toward me, as if he’s made a weighty decision. “You do like Cerys don’t you Llud?”

Truly, I’m baffled why Llywie’s ventured such a question. The sleek chestnut longhorns trotting beside me mirror my confusion, lowing quizzically. “Of course I like Cerys. Very much. I’m delighted that she’s going to be my sister. You know that.”

Beneath his head-wrappings, Llywie’s eyes are wide and bemused. “The thing is………and for a shrewd fellow you’re somewhat blind oft-times Llud……….Cerys would much rather she was becoming my sister………..just as Olwyn would much rather you were gifting her a nuptial band instead of Perry……….. have you really not ever guessed?”

Meaningfully, Llywie smiles at me.

From sheer amazement, I almost pitch chin down, tuft up in a bank of snow like that errant nanny. Waiting until I have retrieved the stupid goat, Llywie’s smile grows decidedly amused. I splatter and splutter and frown, floundering for words, my hands waving wild refutation across the wintry air.

By Cerridwen’s enchanted cauldron, I swear I never suspected.

Laughing again, Llywie tenderly cuffs me. “Olwyn worships the ground your boots tread upon Llud and Cerys has loved you since she was a little girl. I think it’s only you who’s oblivious…….” His voice quietens, becoming husky with emotion. “Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest course to accept Tomas’ offer when he proposed that Cerys and I marry…………but I love her Llud, I’ve always loved her and I believe that eventually she’ll come to love me. We can build a life together, a family – and soon you must marry too. You’ll marry the girl you love if you’re lucky ……..the girl who steals your heart, whoever that may be……..”

He smooths Damara’s silky mane. The goats frisk and the cows moo plaintively. Everything else around us is utterly calm and completely still. Hushed and glacial.

Reaching out, I clasp Llywie’s shoulder. “The one thing I am certain of - blundering, blind fool though I may be – is that you will make Cerys happy and care for her as no-one else ever could. She will learn to love you because you already love her with your whole heart………..no-one else could ever give her more because you’re willing to give her everything.”

Almost shyly, Llywie nods and returns the pressure against my fingers.

He’s my beloved brother and I would do anything to see him content.

That pesky nanny – gambolling ahead once more. Casting my eyes heavenwards, I knee my horse forward. “You can call your first son after me. Llud’s such a lyrical name. Falls off the tongue like sweet poetry.”

Another rollicking laugh and Llywie follows me, Damara cantering sedately beside him. “My first son can have your name as his second one -but he shall be called Shannyn. ‘Little wise owl.’ I think it’s a beautiful name – gentle and strong. Cerys is agreeable. We discussed it when………”

There is a dull thud.

His blood on the snow dazzles me……….like fire shining through ice………..

  
Apple Blossom – Part 10

Four Saxons.

All young and strong. Probably the same age as Llywie and me. Faces flecked with blonde stubble. Thick, tangled flaxen hair. Cold eyes and brutal smiles. Wrapped in sheepskin and hides against the bitter chill.

They’ve been watching from the forest. Seen us riding along with plump livestock and three fine battle horses.

They're double our number and have the advantage of stealth and surprise.

Ambush and attack.

Late last autumn there were rumours that the Saxons were planning another big offensive come the spring thaw. These bastards no doubt belong to a wing of their advance army. Scouting deep in Celtic territory while the snows still blanket the ground like frosty middens and warriors huddle close to their warm fires.

The leader seems to be the tallest of the group. Wearing a rough grey wolf’s skin. Giving silent yet emphatic commands by tossing his head and hooking his fingers.

It is his axe that has flown from the icy undergrowth and is now buried in Llywie’s belly.

Two of the Saxons have pulled me from my horse and stand on either side of me, each one savagely twisting one of my arms high against my spine.

A third Saxon is tending the cows and goats and trying to calm a white-eyed, fractious Damara. He possesses some skills as a herdsman because the animals are gradually quietening and even Damara is becoming less anxious as he croons to her in some ugly barbarian tongue.

That is the only sound on this woodland path except for Llywie.

He is lying on his back in the snow at the leader’s feet. Groaning softly and whimpering. Blood pooling around him in a dark scarlet lake.

I am frozen by fear.

Not fear of these fucking Saxon soldiers – if my arms were free and the odds better, I would gladly slaughter them all and laugh as they were slain. I have killed scores before and I'm resolved to slay scores more.

No, the fear arises because I know that we are both destined to die here and I can do nothing to succour Llywie while he writhes in agony. My beloved brother is wracked by pain and anguish and I am helpless.

Guilt cleaves me too. Somehow I should have sensed that these bastards were lurking near. Of Llywie and me, I was Taren’s star pupil when it concerned following trails and tracking. Our grandfather always praised my keen nose and sharp eyes. Yet, today, when it matters most, I have failed completely.

Probably they will slit my throat. Retrieve the axe from Llywie's gut and leave Llywie to simply bleed away.

To slit his throat as well would be a mercy.

But I see none of it in the leader’s sullen blue gaze.

Firmly he bends down and drags Llywie toward the surrounding woods.

Llywie screams and moans.

The path of crimson on the snow is black like molten tar now.

I cannot bear this.

I start to weep and mewl and protest.

My tears feel warm on my chill cheeks.

My captors laugh gruffly and exchange a few cheerful words. They’re relishing everything.

Roughly, they push me forward, making me stumble along Llywie’s bloody path. Thrusting me viciously up against a gnarly oak.

I can hear Llywie but not see him.

He is lying several yards distant, hidden by a pile of weathered stones.

I can only hear his wild sobbing.

Then an abrupt, fierce bellow. Llywie in anguish.

Suddenly the sobbing begins again. Lower and harsher and infinitely more terrible.

I wish I were dead. I want them to kill me. I cannot endure another moment.

The leader strides toward me, grinning, showing straight, fine teeth that gleam white as the fresh-fallen snow. His axe gleams too, red as summer berries glistening in the sunshine.

Red with Llywie’s life blood.

Almost thankfully I await the bite of that axe or the slice of his knife. At least it will be over.

At least it will close my ears.

Yet instead, he signals decisively at his henchmen. One unloops rope from about his waist – stout Roman rope fashioned from horse hair and sinew – and together they bind me tightly to the oak. Neck and hands and feet so that I cannot move. Only hear.

They mean to leave me here to freeze to death.

And listen to Llywie die.

Smiling slowly, the leader tut-tuts and shakes his curly tow-coloured head at me– as if with sad regret. Among themselves, they may mutter in a strange, coarse dialect – however they certainly understand every tortured word being wrung from Llywie. Whether new to this land or not, they comprehend the language of the Celts.

An icy gust of wind comes dancing through the forest clearing, billowing their cloaks and tossing the skeletal branches. It lifts the leader’s hair away from his neck, baring the skin. Snaking across it is a long, ridged scar. Puckered and silvery. Probably an old, boyhood dagger wound.

After that, nothing else really……….

The Saxons go, taking the livestock with them.

I endeavour to call to Llywie. To reassure him. Give some sort of scant comfort. Tell him that I love him and always will.

But the ropes are tethered so cruelly that trying to speak makes them burn and choke my throat. All I manage is a throttled yelp.

Dusk begins to grey the gloom and the cold grows glacial.

And Llywie………..still Llywie lives. Keening and weeping.

At first he cries out for our mother. Then for Cerys. Then for what seems like hours he cries out for me, for his little brother.

When the darkness is raw and heavy, he ceases to cry out at all.

I have utterly misjudged. His silence is immeasurably worse.

Without warning, the blighted darkness rushes inside me and I know no more……….

When I open my eyes next, it is fully day and I am lying, swaddled in blankets, with my head cradled across Perry’s lap. He holds a mead cup to my cracked lips and murmurs soothingly. “You were late returning………we came looking………oh Llud we came looking……..” I can hear horses stamping and whinnying nearby and Tugram’s distinctive voice ringing out on the brisk, bleak air. March comes to kneel on the other side of me. His eyes are sorrowful and his gloved hands clasp mine for warmth and solace.

My neck is scraped to the bone and my fingers and feet are dead to touch and feeling.

So is my heart.

I have a foolish, simpleton’s thought: that Perry is being kind to me although he’s apparently aware that it is me his Olwyn truly loves. How gallant of him. How chivalrous. He is such a good, loyal friend.

From the corner of my bleary eye, I suddenly see Travon and Brice. They have something slung between them, shrouded in dark pelts. Something that is bulky and unmoving.

It is Llywie.

I pass out again………….

We lay Llywie to rest beneath the apple trees behind the village. In spring the boughs will glow with pale, fragrant blossoms.

Several months later Tomos-the-wheelwright comes to ask if I would be willing to take Cerys to wife. He hopes I am not offended. It simply seems sensible and fitting somehow.

Gwrlais encourages me to accept. Life must go on. We must believe in a future. It’s what Llywie would have wanted.

I bow to my grandfather’s wisdom and the knowledge that Cerys loves me. He is all the family that remains to me and she is a gentle, faithful girl.

Fitting and sensible indeed.

Thus we are married and Cerys is soon with child.

When our son is born, he is named Shannyn Afallon.

  
Apple Blossom - Part 11 

  
When Llud’s quiet words die away, there is only silence. Our father drains his cup and places it softly on the rushes at his feet.

Instinctively I tighten my arm about Arthur’s too-lean waist and Arthur nuzzles my cheek. He may be the love of my life, but he is also my brother. That was how he first became beloved to me when we were children.

I cannot even begin to glean the profundity of Llud’s grief……….or how he ever endured.

At last it is Arthur who speaks. “That’s why you’ve always hated the apple blossom marriage ballad.” Smiling sadly, Llud nods. “Of course you learn to live with loss…….family, friends…….sometimes limbs.” Ruefully, he gestures with his iron paw. “It’s simply the way of life after all……..fields lay fallow under the grey frost and then bloom again……..even if they must be watered by our tears to burgeon.”

In the firelight our father’s eyes are infinitely gentle. “Perhaps I should have shared the whole story with you sooner. You’ve long know the bare bones……..I had a brother Llywie whom I loved dearly………he was to marry Cerys……….he died young and cruelly and I was there………. That seemed enough and little to be gained by further retelling. The only other person I opened my heart to was Vala……”

Llud sighs and stretches. “Everyone else from that day is gone – everyone except Tugram. Travon and March and Brice slain at Ilchester……….Perry killed by Morcant’s traitorous henchman…………Now though the gods are ordaining that the embers of yore be raked over again and the matter will have to be dealt with………for good or ill…….”

Reaching out, I lay my hand on Llud’s knee. “What would you have us do?” Immediately brisk, Llud pats my fingers and rises to his feet. “At this moment, no more. I have a mind to sit a while near the fire –however you both deserve a tolerable night’s sleep and I’ve already kept you awake over-long with my ramblings. We can discuss things……..hold council in the morning. Off to bed and may Arianrhod grant you kindly dreams.”

Typical Llud – depreciating the situation when so many powerful feelings have clearly been untrammelled tonight.

So he’s rather startled when Arthur draws him close and I put my lips against his grizzled hair. Indeed Llud has never been markedly demonstrative with we two – he was a widower alone, raising a pair of boisterous boys for leadership and battle. (Of course, he’s openly affectionate toward our children . Often what happens concerning indulgent, doting grandfathers though I believe.)

Yes, startled but also secretly thankful to judge by the way Llud closes his eyes and clings to us for a moment. Our wonderful father – tenaciously tough and immeasurably tender.

We leave Llud to his memories and his mead by the fire. Probably he will doze off amid the sheepskins there. Arianrhod grant him kindly dreams too.

Lenni is watching over Conn in the healer’s hut and Rowena has baby Shannyn swaddled among the fleeces beside her. Therefore Arthur and I crawl together into my bed and I prepare to fall asleep in my little brother’s arms.

Impossible to alter the past - all we may do is honour it and preserve the future safekeeping of our family and our people.

This murderous bastard who is our captive - he who smote Llud’s brother and caused such unutterable desolation – his case will require judgement and reparation. Practical judgment and fitting reparation – exactly what Arthur deems the foundation of stable, wary leadership.

Tonight, while I sat listening to Llud recounting his sorrow, I had silently cursed the gods. Why kindle this torment afresh for no worthwhile purpose? Better perhaps if we had ridden north instead of south today and the fucking Saxon had slipped back across Cerdig’s borders. He fought me furiously, but dropped his shield arm to the right when it really mattered. Slower on his feet than many younger, stronger warriors will be. Sooner or later he would have fallen to someone else’s sword, without coming here to plague us with his pestilential venom.

Yet, my cursing was nearsighted and the gods are wiser than we know.

Dealing with this will give Arthur new purpose, restore his resolve, sunder his broodiness.

Timely since spring’s fast approaching. Soon plunderers will be relinquishing their hearths to burn and marauder. The other Celtic chieftains will begin their seasonal litanies of whining and complaints. Treaties will need refurbishing and pacts swearing once more. Arthur’s usual agility – both mental and physical – will have its usual daunting challenges to meet and now he’ll be ready.

Such thoughts are solacing and staunch.

I nestle against Arthur and let myself relax.

I’m certain that I’ll slumber deeply – weary from worry over Arthur’s recent fragility and Llud’s anguished tale as I am too.

Yet Arianrhod completely deserts me and my dreams are wild and awry.

Standing at Llud’s burning homestead………..struck mute after watching my blood father die…………lost and dazed and wretched because suddenly I cannot recall his face or his name or the touch of his hand warmly gripping mine………a myriad of remembrances gone like ashes on the sharp-edged wind wafting about me……… then watching Corin ride toward the palisade that very first time he came as our pupil, seeking vengeance for his father’s killer……. unknowingly seeking Arthur……. ‘I know I was wrong. But ask yourselves a question. If one of you were slain … what would the others do?......... Well?........I don’t know. You?.........I don’t know. Llud?.............’

Tossing and fretting. Until, near dawn, I feel Arthur curl his leg around my hip and draw me against him. Pressing his mouth softly to mine. Tucking the quilt solicitously over us both. Murmuring “you really must cease pulling the blankets off my bum beloved – it’s easily chill and needs all the comfort it can get in its present gaunt state.”

That makes me smile and finally I do sleep sound.

Free of faceless fathers and old queries of retribution.

Waking to my own brown eyes and the fragrance of hot porridge. Theo, kneeling on the fleeces, hair sticking up in thick, straight blonde tufts, proffering breakfast and his sweetest grin. The bedroom is otherwise empty and through the wicker wall, I can hear Rowena cajoling the children. Adding something else in a gentler, slightly-anxious tone. I realize that she’s speaking to Arthur and immediately wonder if we all address him in troubled voices these days, without being wholly aware of it. Thank Christ all that is set to cease.

Watching me devour the porridge at speed, Theo ticks off his messages on his fine, slender fingers. 

“Grandad Llud says to hurry – there’s going to be a council held. Mummy’s still up in the healer’s hut – Conn’s got a fever. Aunt Wena’s taking us to the hen run – which means she’s getting us out of the way so you can do grown-up things.” He beams and retrieves my empty bowl. Already a sage at ten.

Thanking my astute little sage with a kiss on his forehead, I buckle on my sword belt. “What’s your Uncle Arthur about?” A frown creases that sagacious forehead. “Sitting by the fire………Daddy, I wish Uncle Arthur would become himself again. I mean, he is himself because who else could he be?....... but not as much as he should be……….he’s nice, but so quiet…….”

However did I manage this shrewd, thoughtful elder son? Of course, its Lenni’s doing really – her warmhearted wisdom being bequeathed. Wisdom and compassion.

Taking Theo’s hand, I tilt his face upwards. “I’m sure that Uncle Arthur won’t bear to be quiet much longer. If only to drown out the great noise of you children rollicking around everywhere……….Mind you bring a plump bird back for supper and pluck it well. None of us like a mouthful of feathers with our turnips and leeks……”

Theo’s laughter makes my heart happy.

As does Arthur’s smile from the head of the longhouse table when I sit down at his right, ready for the council gathering.

For its exquisite beauty and its boundless love. Because he may be pale and peaked, yet he’s here, awaiting determination and debate. Simply because my heart is his.

Llud is seated on the other side, looking calm and seemingly impassive. Further along the bench are half a dozen of the village’s senior warriors – some who can still heft a sword and spear, others who can no longer do so through age or injury. Lastly there is Tugram, especially thin-lipped and grim-eyed this morning. Obviously they have all been told the circumstances of this meeting.

Tugram doesn’t waste a moment in getting matters started. “Llud’s sure this bastard is the man who murdered his brother and almost murdered him too. A narrow thing it was I can tell you – I know, I was there……I can still recall it as though it was yesterday” He glances meaningfully at Llud and clenches both fists.

At Tugram’s elbow, Edern, with hair like spun snow and skin like cockled parchment, nods decisively. “I too remember………. Llywellen, son of Nial, was a good man…….. a brave soldier……… he saved my life in a skirmish with the Picts……..the devil has returned this brutish Saxon to us after these many years for a clear purpose.”

Earnestly Tugram rises to his feet, gesturing wildly. “Truer words were never uttered…….a stoning would be just punishment for what he did…….. for the suffering he inflicted…….. then his fucking head displayed on a spear at the gates of our village, hoisted high and left for the carrion crows to strip clean to the bone………so die all murderers and traitors…..”

“No!”………” Llud’s voice is impassioned lightning aflame and his iron hand the thunder’s roar as it crashes abruptly against the rough wood of the longhouse table.

Apple Blossom - Part 12 

  
Stunned into frozen silence and completely taken aback, we gape at Llud. Actually Arthur seems the least alarmed of us all – his habitual imperturbability taking command again I hope. Though surreptitiously his fingers close around mine beneath the trestles. (Another habitual practice this – we’ve held hands under countless council tables across the years and relished every sweet moment. Especially when Mark’s been ranting on obliviously beside we two.)

Now, as Llud draws a fortifying breath, Tugram hastily slumps back down on to the bench. The wind well and truly retreating from his erstwhile-billowy sails. Albeit, I’m utterly baffled too. Nothing that Tugram just proposed was unusual or unwarranted. It’s Llud’s ferocious reproach which is vexing.

Our father slowly takes a sip of mead. The colour is returning to his ashen face and he seems calmer. Glancing at Tugram, Llud gives a crooked, rueful smile. “I’m sorry for losing my temper and startling everyone. It was not necessary…… better I simply explain…….”

He speaks with his heart in his voice and within his eyes. “Garet and Gawain may often be foolish simpletons, but one thing they once said did ring with absolute truth. They said that only holy men and cowards agree all the time. So too it is I believe where seeking vengeance is concerned. Only a saintly monk or a craven weakling would turn away from the chance to gain recompense for the loss of a loved one and certainly I am neither. Indeed I was named for our god of wrath and revenge.”

Llud gazes steadily at Arthur and me and Arthur’s hand wraps more tightly about mine. “The single request I make is this: since Llywie did not fall as a fighting man, there is undoubtedly a case to answer. I ask that the case be presented to the lawgiver before any verdict is settled. That may appear overly scrupulous and I’m certain no-one here is trying to act arbitrarily……….it is just that once, long ago, I shunned vengeance when it was freely offered by the gods and that decision has brought me the greatest joy a man can be gifted in this life………..taking revenge does not assuage anguish………therefore now I would claim justice for Llywie according to the law and if that justice also sanctions retribution, so be it……”

Softly, Llud’s words fade away and hot tears prickle behind my lids.

I do not think that I have ever loved our father more profoundly.

Beside Llud, silver-haired Arian gives a satisfied grunt and breaks the hush. “That sounds perfectly sensible to me. Letting the lawgiver decide such cases has always stood us in good stead." 

Around him, the other grizzled heads and Tugram’s still-dark one nod and mutter agreement. I turn to Arthur and smile. “I can ride and see the lawgiver. Take Rylan with me and leave at once. Pointless to delay.”

Having recovered his fervour, Tugram gets earnestly back to business. “There’s also those two Saxon boys to be traded. That’s not a job for an ordinary messenger either. Send me and my brother Ermid. We’ve done it before and we know how to convince Cerdig’s men that there’ll be no treachery. What say you Arthur?”

We wait expectantly for Arthur’s response to this very rational scheme.

Arthur blinks, chews his lip, traces the splintery veins along the ancient table wood with a curious finger.

My heart sinks like lead tossed into the lake.

Llud’s eyes flash a troubled warning across at me. Time for indulging sentiment over.

Fuck……….

Finally, Arthur coughs and answers. “Yes, Tugram. You and Ermid…..I don’t trust that Cerdig would ever do the same were he to capture any young Celtic soldiers, but their savagery need not be ours………Since that seems to be all that requires our deliberation, my thanks.”

His hand caresses my palm and Arthur rises to his feet.

To me, his relief is palpable. Relief and something else…………or more. Weariness? Uncertainty? Reprieve?

All and any probabilities are formidable.

Perhaps though only Llud and I have marked anything gravely amiss. Hopefully too it can remain that way until matters have come right again. Whenever that shall be……..

Hopes that are immediately dashed since Tugram waylays me as soon as I’m past the doorwardens. Shepherding me determinedly into the longhouse shadows and out of their earshot.

“Can this wait Tugram? I need to tell Lenni I’m leaving.” Futile really – an obstinate Tugram is akin to one of those crisp-coated, tenacious little dogs that the Cornish hunters employ to chase quarry into burrows and dens. Adamant and unshakeable.

Tugram murmurs fiercely, peering furtively over his shoulder at the passing villagers. “What’s wrong with your brother Kai? We’re all aware that he’s still recovering from that bastard Hoxel’s attack, but it’s more than needing meat on his bones. He seems as if his mind’s leagues away amid the hollow hills.”

I smile politely at Leesa while she saunters round the corner, then look meaningfully at Tugram. Praying that I appear convincing enough. “It’s nothing. Just what you say. Arthur needs rest and some of Lenni’s good cooking. He’ll heal fully once the spring comes. Fresh air and warm days Tugram.”

Luckily, I’ve never had to earn my keep as a player in a travelling troupe because Tugram seems decidedly sceptical.

“Hmmmmm……….I’ll take your word for it Kai……..for now. Your word as a warrior………..It’s simply that we both know those rumours about the Saxons mounting a huge offensive are rife and not going anywhere fast. If that happens –and I think we can also both agree that it’s more likely when than if – we’ll want a leader with fire in his belly and a mind like a new-honed blade……… I was here the night that Arthur was born Kai, I can see that everything’s not as it should be………..and I’ll gladly sacrifice a plump calf to the gods if I’m mistaken.”

He pats my shoulder and tramps off, calling to a farmhand to run and fetch his brother Ermid. Nerves clamouring, I go up to the healer’s hut.

Lenni is tired and wan. Conn’s fever has not ebbed as quickly as she’d like. Albeit he’s slumbering peacefully now. Probably, dosed well with cypress tonight, his wife can tend him and Lenni can sleep soundly in our bed. The smudges under her pretty eyes are the colour of soot.

She reads my lips carefully when I tell her what’s planned and then kisses them gently. “Llud’s right. To seek the lawgiver’s counsel will respect his brother’s memory and see honour served………..Meanwhile, we in the longhouse can try and restore Arthur’s spirits…….. I’m beginning to become truly daunted Kai………truly dismayed.”

To reassure her as much as myself, I return Lenni’s kiss with tenderness and passion. Reminding her to relax for the sake of our baby she carries. Promising to ride warily. Pledging that I’m sure Arthur will appreciate their ministrations.

Of course, I can be confident that Lenni will rest to allay me – as I will heed the stones and brambles under Arbelio’s hooves for her. Concerning Arthur and the rest………I don’t fool her for a second, just as I don’t fool myself.

I can still feel her anxious gaze upon me when I find Arthur in the longhouse sleeping chamber. Perched on his fleeces, he’s cleaning his sword – though it’s already shiner than a shaft of summer sunshine.

Bending to claim his mouth, I whisper softly against his silken, cropped hair. “What’s wrong beloved? Talk to me.”

No man was ever kissed more rapturously or farewelled so sweetly.

But Arthur says nothing beyond “Godspeed my Kai. I’ll miss you every moment that you’re gone………. and I love you.”

However, he looks at me as if I’ve long been certain what really ails him.

Which undoubtedly I have.

Arthur and I are two halves of the one whole. He is my breath and my all – my dawn and my day and my dusk.

Yes……….it is the certainty of what I know that keeps my heart awash with wild, helpless tears until we reach the lawgiver’s encampment.

Apple Blossom - Part 13 

When Tugram and Ermid have ridden away with the two woebegone Saxon boys – lashed together and stumbling miserably behind the horses that Tugram makes canter just a little too smartly, but overwhelmingly relieved to be going home – I wander up to the prisoner’s hut.

Nodding affably at the sentry, I gaze through the sawtooth grill in the door at the man who killed Llywie.

Undoubtedly he has realised that the wheel of fortune, the ancient rota fortunae, is tumbling differently for him than for the boys who are being sent back to Cerdig’s kingdom.

His feet are roped to a pole in the middle of the floor. However his hands are free and he has a bowl of bread and gruel on his lap, eating greedily. Clearly, he’s not as averse to our rye loaves as Cerdig’s men were at Yorath’s long-ago feast.

We must be much of an age, he and I – and we seem to have weathered the years about equally. He is grey and somewhat furrowed. Yet also still strong - a staunch set to his shoulders and a firm set to his lips. Still an unyielding warrior.

Hastily, he drains his mead cup and wipes a hand across his mouth. Then twists his body, settles more comfortably among the rushes and closes his eyes. Just a man dozing after a filling, if modest, noonday meal.

Just a man who once acted with tortuous brutality and splintered my heart.

And therein lies the blatant difference between us – both grizzled, seasoned soldiers though we may be.

There is honour in defending your family and your people and your lands. It is what any brave, resolute warrior does and is expected to do. It is what I have done faithfully since I was hardly more than a boy. It is a simple matter of survival and endurance and safekeeping.

Truly, if men became angels tomorrow and sprouted virtuous, placatory wings, I would forever lay down my sword and shield, happily cossetting my grandwhelps, sowing the fields and fishing our waters instead.

Though then, as I once cautioned young Corin, it would mean that we were already in paradise………and this sleeping Saxon reminds me sharply that heaven still wheels leagues beyond us, amid the fire-fly stars.

There was no honour in what he inflicted upon Llywie. It was pure torment, to serve purposes of greed and barbarism and savagery.

Suddenly, as I watch him snore, I wonder if he already had a wife and children on the wintry day Llywie died. Almost certainly he does now and probably grandchildren that he dotes upon too.

I wonder how you can love others, cherish your family, coddle your nestlings…….. and yet act like a devil.

I attempt to fathom this and flounder amid thunderous, anguished blackness.

Black as his wayward soul.

Enough………..

Inside the prisoner’s hut, the Saxon stretches and grunts. Maybe soon he will call out to the sentry and ask to be untied for a piss. The only occasions on which he speaks apparently.

Anyway, I have seen sufficient.

Whatever happens next, he sealed his own fate. Let the gods and the law make their deserved reparations now.

My precious memories of my brother are inviolable and I recall him with deepest love. In the end, that is what matters most and matters more.

Striding through the village, I’m remembering a joke Llywie once made about fish and twats and chuckling quietly to myself, when I’m abruptly assailed by the scent of apples. Sweet and fragrant. Fresh like spring and crisp like autumn.

Llywellen Afallon…………of the apple isle.

Rounding a corner of the stables, in search of the wafting aroma, I almost pitch headlong against Olwyn. Standing beside a freshly-unplugged barrel of cider.

The apples gathered and scratted into pomace last summer. So heady now that my twitching old nose feels pleasantly tipsy.

Holding out her hand to me, Olwyn gives her entrancing smile and I smile softly back. She really is irresistible and captivating and wonderful and I really am infinitely lucky. What did I think on that frosty afternoon as me and Llywie and Travon and the others cantered toward Aberthol’s camp? That Olwyn was exactly the sort of girl with whom you could be content?..........and I was exactly right.

“Look Llud, I thought we might share a cup or two of this tonight. It’s rather intoxicating.” Her eyes sparkle mischievously at me. “You can come for supper………and stay for breakfast.”

Leaning forward, I kiss her soundly where anyone passing by can witness……..and extremely proud of it I be.

Unlike Arthur, I’m not always chary concerning public displays of affection.

Ah yes Arthur………….

Drawing Olwyn close, I press my face to her hair and hide my frown.

A weighty task awaits us there………..and time is fast taking flight………..

We all try while Kai is away.

I hear Llud’s counsel when my kindly father-by-marriage comes to sit near Arthur at the longhouse table. I’m hewing the hare for dinner and Arthur is calmly observing me hew. Not even playfully mocking my cooking skills either……..

By Christ, I miss his impish banter.

Llud slides on to the bench and smiles. “Rowena love, Olwyn’s asked me to share her evening meal……..Arthur…….” His good hand settles firmly on his younger son’s knee. “I would say something….and it is all I know to say…….”

Arthur nods briefly and waits. Glancing eloquently at me over Arthur’s dark head, Llud begins. “I’ve always believed that it’s in your blood to help others Arthur. Travon was the same……….and Vala. That day, when you stopped to aid what you thought was a stricken youth and was captured by Hoxel, you made the right decision……….you just got luckless results as we sometimes do in life……..”

Purposefully, Llud’s fingers tighten around Arthur’s knee. “What else can I tell you? That there isn’t a day when I don’t wish I was there when our homestead was attacked and I lost Cerys and my Shannyn? That I would set out an hour earlier or two later if I had it all to do over again with Llywie? Of course, those things are true. But we can’t punish ourselves world without end. Each of us suffers guilt and regret and each of us has to learn to forgive ourselves and begin anew……….it’s that beginning which takes courage ……… and your courage takes my breath away Arthur……..”

Another fatherly pat and Llud rises to his feet. Another swift nod from Arthur who remains silent.

Llud’s done his best……….and his quiet, forthright wisdom makes me want to weep.

A little later, after supper, Lenni gestures her entreaty.

“Arthur dearest, I don’t often plead, but I’m pleading now………for the sake of the love we both bear him……….don’t do this to Kai………” and she fiercely kisses Arthur’s cropped hair.

Oh, wondrous, clever girl our Lenni………..none never more so.

Lastly, I attempt the only remedy I can glean.

Being a milder evening, Arthur takes Theo and Cedric and Luc outside to stargaze. Something at least which is a change from Arthur’s habitual fire-gazing-by-the-hearth these days.

When I’ve finished suckling Shannyn and they’re still gone, I go to see what’s keeping them. Arthur has the boys perched on the palisade and all four are peering entranced at the night sky. Silver and gold sands tangled on an infinite ebony beach.

Gently, Arthur is explaining to the boys how Orion represents promise and hope. The indomitable huntsman who is the most handsome of the earthborn.

Yes, we could all use a hefty dollop of hope right about this moment, handsome or no…….

Hearing me behind him, Arthur slips his arm around my waist and I slip Shannyn into the crook of his elbow. She crows with delight at sight of her father, instantly besotted, and he nuzzles her downy cheek against his own.

“Come back to me Arthur” I whisper and my tears fall across his throat.

For a heartbeat, Arthur’s enthralling tale of mythical giants and beasts falters……..then tenderly he continues on, “Odysseus spied Orion hunting in the underworld, yielding his bronze club…….. and his lover was the beautiful, saffron-robed goddess who was called Dawn……”

It’s well after dusk when we reach our destination. I’m stiff and cold in the saddle, but at least Rylan has been an ebullient companion. Busily chattering as we ride along, his free-flowing babble a welcome distraction for once.

Anything to escape my sorrowful, clamorous thoughts.

Rylan it seems believes himself in love with two fair village maidens: Ailia and Ceire. Ailia is sweet and Ceire is a darling. Both adore him – so what’s a baffled man to do because he clearly can’t stand before the Abbott with one on either side?

That’s where I make my mark apparently. A renowned womanizer who has since become devoted husband and father. How would I choose?

Ruefully I regard Rylan from the corner of my eye. “Which girl can you most readily talk to? I mean, lively conversation that provokes laughter and little things that are nonetheless precious and the deepest musings of your heart. Winter nights by the fire are long Rylan and you’ll be a long time married.”

Rylan ponders soberly and snaps his fingers. “Definitely Ailia. Ceire is more…….. featherbrained to put it nicely. It’s Ailia who really listens………..and she concocts the best jests Kai. She can have me chuckling till my sides smart.”

He sighs with profound relief and bestows a jaunty grin upon me. Decision well and truly sewn up.

I am lauded as an oracle and a hero until the lanterns of Morged’s village glow upon the horizon. Would that all quandaries were so nimbly solved.

Once past Morged’s gatewardens, I briefly visit his longhouse to state my business. Politely refusing an offer of supper from his homely wife Eres – though my belly is rumbling and her roast pheasant smells enticing. Receiving affable greetings from their four handsome, dark-haired sons who are dicing near the hearth – Owyn and Peredur, Roane and Cori - much more gracious than their roguish father. Reassuring that same roguish father that I’m only staying overnight and will be gone again at sunrise - and smirking to myself at Morged’s patently false declarations of regret over my sadly brief visit. As Arthur’s brother, he’s as fond of me as a trembling fox is of a marauding bear.

Next I install Rylan in Karn’s hut where he’s soon chortling with Karn’s good-natured boys, Fercos, Gryphin and Evan and relishing the hot pea soup that Karn’s beauteous wife Aine has bubbling ready.

Placidly, Karn walks me to the door – then places a far-from-placid hand on my arm and lowers his voice. “And what of Arthur? When Evan and I saw him recently…….” Karn’s gaze is steady and intuitive in the flickering candlelight. I smile and return the pressure of his fingers. If only all men were loyal and trustworthy like this staunch maker of arms. “Slowly mending……….his body more quickly than his mind perhaps…….”

Karn nods, knitting his brows. “Inward scars are always the last to scab over……… probably some never do………….but it’s a raw night and you have urgent matters to discuss elsewhere………..the gods be with you till morning………”

Leaving me to seek the lawmaker’s hut and resolve the true purpose of my journey.

He is standing waiting for me. Morged’s uncle. Looking just as he did years ago when he oversaw Arthur and Karn’s first savage contest in that muddy sword-ring. When there was no absolute winner and Arthur shrewdly concealed the trader’s knife.

The lawmaker of the Celtic alliance. Seemingly fragile, with his wispy white hair and his crooked leg – yet indubitably astute, learned and scholarly. Arbiter of justice and advocate of wisdom.

Watching me approach, his pale eyes twinkle. “Hurry young Kai, the wind isn’t kind to these venerable bones of mine and I’m sure you’re in need of a good supper. Though I won’t claim my rabbit rivals Lenni’s.” That makes me grin, despite my weariness and worry. “I don’t believe anyone in the land can rival Lenni where that is concerned………Thank you for giving me your hospitality tonight Myrddin Emrys.”

He ushers me briskly inside. “My pleasure………..although such formality isn’t warranted between the two of us………we’re old cronies by now……….please Kai, simply call me Merlin.”

Apple Blossom - Part 14 

Truly, Merlin’s stewed rabbit isn’t quite as savoury as Lenni’s - merely because Lenni is the best cook you will ever find stirring at any hearth, debate over. However the man can certainly choose what spices and vegetables should simmer together in a cauldron, just as deftly as he once predicted certain times and tides. (On that long-ago, revelatory day when we defeated Cerdig’s men by trapping them amid the quagmires – it was Merlin who told Llud precisely when the river would flow up from the sea and transform the land into a treacherous marsh………….. though I recall it more accurately because I had recently kissed Arthur under our tree while he played dead and I was so terrified at my audacity that the battle was a welcome relief.)

Anyway, Merlin’s stew is exceedingly good, his warm fire solacing and his book-and-parchment-wadded hut is cosy. He waits while I eat and then quietly enquires the reason for my visit. Obviously wanting to hear the tale in my own words.

So, I tell him – albeit I lack Arthur’s ability to strip a story to its bare bones and still retain the essential marrow. But Merlin lets me ramble and simply listens.

Finally, I fall silent and he slowly nods. “Help yourself to the wine flagon Kai – a fine vintage to sooth the throat and the heart…………Alright, if Llud has recognized this man as his brother’s slayer, we all know that such an assessment is sound. I well remember Llywie map Nial Gwrlais - handsome and brave ……I can also understand why Llud’s sent the matter to my counsel………” Merlin’s faded eyes soften. “The question of vengeance is a vexed one……….. you’re his son and he loves you deeply……this way, it becomes wholly a point of law………arbitrary retribution doesn’t signify……..”

  
Replenishing my cup for a second time, I smile wearily. Here, beside the roaring flames, I feel weightless as a feather. For days, I have been wracked by tension and uncertainty – and still I have no notion where to turn next or how things will ever tumble right again. Arthur seems unable or unwilling to quell his anguish……..

Merlin gestures at the quill and parchment lying on his table. “Tomorrow morning early, I’ll write you a judgement to take to Arthur. Whatever punitive measures you deem appropriate………….” Shrewdly, he holds out his own goblet to be filled.“ Now Kai, would it help if you were to share with me what else is troubling you? It’s entirely your choice and I’m not prying…………withal, I pledge nothing you utter will leave this rather shabby, shoddy room…………. Otherwise, you look tired enough to fall asleep where you sit and your pallet……..”

The words come plummeting out before Merlin has even finished speaking. Headlong and headfirst as a swollen creek in full spate.

Or perhaps the words are more akin to the silver salmon who leap forth each year from the creeks. Desperately driving upsteam and vaulting shimmering waterfalls. Sensing instinctively that there must be a landing-place………..a harbour where everything can start anew if they just have the courage to fly…………

Thus my words rush and bound and spill.

Hoxel……….. wounds and weapons ………… death and life …………. Shannyn ………….. self-reproach and guilt and self-condemnation ………… hopelessness ………helplessness………….love…………….

This time I am grateful that I’m without Arthur’s boiled-down narrative skills because I need every awry sentence and desultory expression to make my meaning clear. Moreover being long-winded better holds back the threatening tears.

When I cease babbling, Merlin gazes at the flames, creases his already-creased forehead, circles the rim of his cup with his long, elegant fingers. “I can understand why you’re so concerned………there’s much more at stake than just your brother’s welfare, important though that is too…………. Arthur has always been the most self-possessed and indomitable young man I have known…………..he’s had to be in order to accomplish all he has……… and to bear the responsibilities that were thrust upon him as a nestling…………”

Solicitously he smiles. “I’m familiar with the frustration of not being able to reach those we love and I have no magical elixirs to offer as remedy………….Really, the only thing I can think to offer is a story of my own………..”

  
Because the wine flagon is empty, we make do with the dregs of the ale flask. No doubt I’ll need a pinch of fennel in my morning porridge to clear my head, but it will be worth every ache for the wisdom of tonight.

Another gentle smile and Merlin begins. “I have studied the stars since I was a child Kai……….. portents, auspices, auguries……… endless discoveries. However there was one special evening……oh, three decades past………….I had a wife then, did you know that? My darling Viviene and a little daughter Morgan – both died of the red plague a few summers later…….”

He waves a pensive hand at my conciliatory gesture. “Yes……..some losses………there is no reparation, not in this life anyway……… however we were speaking of a certain evening…….. I went outside to check our milk-goat was securely tethered, a raw night too so I meant to hurry, yet I glanced upwards………. The sky was ablaze with wonder Kai. Arcturus, the brightest star in the Great Bear constellation, sparkling with a fire that was……….pure and savage and breathtaking. Seeming so close that you could wrap your fingers around its grandeur. I stayed out that long Viviene came to the door, her shawl about her shoulders, to see what kept me and all I could do was point because my heart was brimming with such promise and hope…………Kai, it was the night that your brother was born.”

For a moment Merlin pauses, lost amid precious, private reveries. Then his gaze twinkles ruefully at me. “As I say, all I can offer is a story…………and also my petition to have faith in your Arthur………..When bears flounder Kai, their struggles must be harder and more harrowing than other lesser creatures…………but they fight to win, tooth and claw….”

Rising to his feet, Merlin leans on his cane and nods toward the sleeping alcove. “Now I believe we’ve both earned our fleeces till sunrise………..I bid you good night and pleasant dreams………….and don’t fret, difficult though it be……….remember, the stars are not men and do not feel the need to deceive……..”

Surprisingly I do sleep well. After an alleviating weep that makes the sheepskins somewhat damp, but leaves me much relieved. Waking to Morged’s cantankerous roosters and a head which thankfully pounds less than I might have feared – probably because Merlin has done Lenni’s usual trick of slipping something curative into my last ale cup.

A hurried breakfast and I present my thanks to the lawgiver for so much more than the judicial parchment within my saddle bag.

Setting off homewards warmed by Merlin’s heartfelt farewell – “godspeed and go warily young Kai” - Karn’s affable wave from his forge, even Morged’s foxy smile at his longhouse door.

Setting off back to Arthur – which is one and the same really because Arthur is my home.

All the way Rylan chatters brightly again like a restless warbler – and afterwards I cannot recall a solitary word he gabbled. All I will recall is the anxiety drumming at my temples and burning beneath my skin.

Halfway there, it starts to rain. Cold and steady. Plastering our wind-tangled hair close to our scalps and making our heavy cloaks sodden. Though not dampening Rylan’s prattle at all – or my disquiet.

Until, on sunset, we ride through the palisade and I fling myself to the ground before Arbelio’s hooves are still. Enquiring Arthur’s whereabouts of a sentry. Taking to my heels when he gestures toward the stables.

Throwing wide the doors to find Arthur wonderfully alone among the horses and straw, the windfalls and equine shit, the earthy smells and shadows.

Decisively latching the doors before kissing him. Long and hot and savage and sweet. Laughing softly as he winds his arms around my neck and kisses back. Fierce and hungry and lavish and wild.

Tongues dancing and mouths aflame.

Ah……..manna from heaven could never have tasted half as rapturous.

So, I’m still befuddled with bliss when I gently break away and blather at full tilt about Merlin and the parchment and what’s to be done with the Saxon. How it will both champion the law and placate Llud. Showing the clear difference between retribution and reckoning.

Arthur strokes my stubbled cheek and frowns. “Then carry it out my Kai. You have my full support and my loyalty. Preside as you will.”

I feel exactly as I did when Morcant and I landed in the lake and the flagrant cold chilled bones, marrow and heart. Leaving me breathless and gasping.

Now………this fucking canker stops now.

Urgently, I gasp Arthur’s hands. “Beloved, you’re our chieftain. The one in authority. You’re well enough to preside yourself tomorrow and it will be expected as an honour to our father. It’s time for Llud and I to stand aside – for you to start governing us again. You’re Arthur of the Celts…………Arthur the Bear. You’re pledged and bound to lead our people. It was written in the stars on the night you were born.”

Arthur’s beautiful blue eyes narrow, but he remains silent and perfectly still. Christ, I wish he’d lash out and strike me in fury. Bellow and reproach. 

Thinking that my sense of frustration will throttle me, I cast around for something ………anything…………. that might serve…………..of course! What I just recalled - Morcant and the lake!

Grazing his knuckles against my lips, I call forth everything within me. “Arthur, when I betrayed our love with Goda and my stupidity put the whole village at risk – every man, woman and child – you held out your hand to me while I floundered in the lake. You pulled me free and restored my heart…………. Mine was the far more grievous offence yet you forgave me ………..little brother, you must learn to forgive yourself. You did nothing unseemly……..”

There is a flash of provocation in Arthur’s gaze – then it is quickly gone. “Big brother, you want me to say aloud what you already know? What ails me? Very well…….Yours was youthful folly, goaded by my pride, whereas I………….. My ill judgement allowed Rowena and I to fall into Hoxel’s murderous hands……….. imperilled your life and Llud’s when you rescued us…………..most of all imperilled the life of my unborn daughter………… If I cannot protect the innocent ………… protect our family ………..what’s most precious to us Kai…….”

His words trail into bleak desolation.

He kisses me tenderly and sighs.

A sound of exhaustion and yielding and utter melancholy.

It is the most frightening sound I have ever heard.

  
Apple Blossom - Part 15 

  
After that there seems little more that I can do. Actually there seems nothing.

Beyond the sober, practical things for the morrow.

I find Llud at the storehut and asks what he intends to do. Carefully ducking the subject of Arthur because it can’t be dealt with in haste and I’m suddenly too exhausted right now. Mind and body.

As usual, our wily father is already leagues ahead of me. Smiling gently as he wads the last barrel of salted fish. “My thanks for making the journey Kai and returning with the lawgiver’s sanction. I’ll cede the……….formalities to you. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to be present come sunrise. I’d rather stay by Olwen who shares many of my most cherished memories……………. Any other leavetaking was done long ago.” Then Llud narrows his eyes and glances prudently at me. “We’ll get through this business first and make other…… judgements later. Naught to be gained by pother and fuss.”

Naught indeed…………

Next a visit to Arian’s hut. His can be the responsibility of summoning our warriors – ten should suffice. Lastly, I seek out Edern – would he please tend the prisoner? He’s had considerable experience at these tasks.

By the time, I tramp toward the longhouse my feet feel as leaden as my heart.

Undoubtedly, I’m relieved that sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued Tugram is still away dealing with the Saxon boys’ exchange. Though he’s certainly right concerning the persistent rumours about a formidable offensive being planned to the east. Once the weather breaks and spring is really here – just scant weeks to go I’d warrant – our defences will need urgent attention.

Should matters remain……….uncertain, there will soon be complaint and dissension. Perhaps even insurgency.

We live in bloody, savage times. Our people must have some scraps of resolution and confidence to cling to. Resolve and confidence that must begin with their leader. Otherwise there is nothing keeping the barbarian abyss from our gates………

No wonder Lenni becomes rather frantic when she sees me. I must look rather like an unnerving fright. Splashed with mud and doused by wretchedness. Tearful and tired and about ready to eat my boot leather I’m so famished.

The children are playing quietly near the hearth and I daren’t hug them I’m so grimy. But Arthur and Rowena aren’t in the main room. Hurriedly Lenni gestures at the bedroom door. Arthur has sought his sheepskins early again and Rowena is keeping him company.

Sinking into Arthur’s great wooden chair, I breathe in his musky scent on the fleeces and close my eyes.

Not for long though. Lenni hustles the boys with hot water for washing and the girls with hot soup and mulled mead. And prods me toward the curtained kitchen alcove with fresh clothes that smell of lavender.

Meaning - once my belly is less hollow and heart less hollow too – I can kiss Lenni and coddle the children and let my weariness wash over me.

Slowly the room starts to blur and I start to droop.

Within minutes, Lenni has children marshalled for bed, candles snuffed out and fires banked.

No-nonsense and deft.

My lovely sweetheart.

Caesar would have been proud to grant her a general’s purple cloak.

  
Despite being weary enough to sway on his feet, I doubt that Kai snatches a whole hour’s slumber all night. Of course, lying beside him I don’t sleep a wink either.

Eventually, we both give up pretending and I settle in the crook of his shoulder and he spreads his palm across my slightly swollen stomach. It’s too soon for the child within to quicken, but Kai has always found this comforting when I’m whelping.

Of us all only Arthur seems to be sleeping soundly. Rowena dozes fitfully. The boys are restless on their pallets. Shannyn is fidgety in her cradle.

I doubt Kaitlin and Maeve are any more tranquil in their sleeping nook.

Little ones sense tension in the air as I do thunderstorms over the estuary.

As the hours pass – seemingly crawling on all fours – Kai strokes my belly and watches Arthur breathe. Bloody interminable night.

Until, long before he has to, Kai wraps a blanket around his shoulders and goes quietly out to stoke the hearth flames. I follow and begin setting out honey and bannocks. Glancing at Kai from the corner of my eye as he fills a bowl with steaming water for shaving. Dampens a rag, lathers a sliver of soap and takes up his razor. Good – a task that requires concentration.

Behind me there’s an abrupt clatter that I sense if do not hear. Kai’s blade tumbling to the rushes. His hand is trembling so violently that he cannot clasp it.

At this rate he won’t be able to clasp a weapon at sunrise either.

Gently, I lead him to the table and Kai doesn’t protest. Merely sighs and closes his eyes while I scrap the golden stubble from his jaw and cheeks. Gradually relaxing beneath my busy fingers and the warm cloths.

Thank the gods for that…………so what else?

Quickly I find a comb and start to untangle the fresh snarls in Kai’s wavy flaxen hair.

Something that’s soothed him since we were children.

He remains silent, eyes still shut, as I free and smooth the knotted strands. However his shoulders are less rigid and his hands are still.

Still enough to grip his axe haft.

Finding an especially unruly tangle, I carefully cut it away with my shears. Then realize it is crooked, trim a little more, somehow fumbling worse, clip further across his nape………… hair like pale silken iris-petals…………snip and snick………that’s fairly straight, though there’s a goodly cluster of blonde tresses on the ground and…….. dear me…….. it’s rather short…….

Suddenly, I’m aware that it’s now my fingers that are shaking and that Kai’s ears are on show. Kai’s never been overfond of his ears, even if Arthur and I think them sweet.

I burst into floods of stupid, rowdy tears, startling Kai who leaps to his feet. I may be mute, but I can weep with the best of them and better than most when the fancy strikes. “Sweetheart? What’s wrong? Are you ill? The baby - I should have thought……”

Emphatically I sign dissent. “No, not ill and you can call me a fool…………your hair Kai……… I’m a-tremble when you need me to be strong…………..and my gestures are rambling …………. just remember that I love you………….. I love you in the way that you love Arthur.”

Oh……….. how reckless and clumsy can I be this morn? Invoking Arthur in such a fashion is something I never ever do…….. and to flounder today of all days…..

Smiling softly, Kai reaches out and trails a finger down my tear-streaked face. “You’re the least foolish person I know Lenni map March………… and your love makes me stronger than a lion.”

Is it possible for a heart to pound and melt at the same moment? To utterly drown in someone’s beautiful brown eyes and yet remain floating? Well, yes it is because mine does and I do and I live to tell the tale.

Outside, the sun’s light will soon be above the horizon.

Time to commence matters – and our sleeping chamber door remains obdurately closed.

Arthur won’t be coming.

Calmly, Kai eats a bannock, drains his mead cup, nuzzles my cheek once more. The warrior within him holding sway.

Calmly I wipe the honey from his chin and press my forehead to his.

What will be now must simply be. God willing, all of us can make shift together.

  
Down by the river the cold is bone-chilling and the grey mist dances in low smoky swirls over the pewter-coloured water. Kai huddles into his cloak and rubs his axe’s bindings. Knowing that beneath lies a lock of Arthur’s silky dark hair.

Knowing that ahead lies uncertainty and perhaps revolt.

But, first there is an urgent task to be undertaken. A reckoning to be made and a memory to be honoured.

Already, ten soldiers, armed with spear and shield, are arrayed along the bank. Unwavering and unmoving. As if carved from crimson-tipped granite stone, their heads flushed by the sun’s red dawn light.

The thin, icy wind tickles Kai’s newly-bared ears as he peers toward the muddy field where the prisoner’s hut squats. Any minute now Edern should be leading the Saxon out.

And here they are, trudging through the mire, the Saxon stumbling as Edern tugs on the rope that also lashes the Saxon’s hands behind his back, except………..Kai’s heart plummets………it’s not Edern, its Tugram who must have gotten home during the night and offered to spare the older warrior this bleak cockcrow duty. Letting Edern stay warmly abed so the brisk weather doesn’t cramp his joints. Tugram relishes the wintry seasons.

Tugram also has the eyes and ears and instincts of a hawk. He’s long guessed that something is errant with Arthur. Kai had hoped to evade him until this business was over.

Well, when the devil drives needs must.

Straightening his shoulders, Kai looks silently at Tugram as he and the Saxon approach. Sullen and dagger-eyed, the Saxon carries himself proudly. Wearing only a rough shirt, yet not allowing himself to shiver. Not even when the glacial breeze lifts his hair from his neck and Kai glimpses the singular puckered scar that let Llud recognize him as Llywie’s slayer.

Bewildered, Tugram glances around. At the line of utterly still warriors, the river which is beginning to reflect the bright, scarlet sunrise, behind them to the slowly-waking village and then back at Kai. “Kai? I know Llud has asked not to be present, but where’s Arthur? Kai, where’s your brother? ” His brown gaze is disbelieving.

The Saxon does not seem even vaguely curious, merely running his tongue along teeth that are still white and straight – no blackened stumps like so many men who have survived five decades or more.

Unflinching to the bitterest end.

“Where is Arthur?” Tugram fiercely whispers once more at Kai. Soon the other warriors may become curious too.

Best get matters done and buried. He has memorised the words – the lawgiver’s edict which Arthur, as their chieftain, should be pronouncing this morning.

Let justice therefore be served.

Kai nods courteously at Tugram, as if that provides some sort of answer to Tugram’s baffled query.

Then, he takes a decisive step forward and opens his mouth to speak.

  
Apple Blossom - Part 16 

  
The words come wafting through the silver mist, like ghostly, flint-voiced curlews over the winter estuary.

“You stand before us this sunrise because of an act of murder. You once wilfully took the life of a good man, a strong warrior – who was the brother of my father, Llud of the Silver Hand. He was not a casualty of war and he did not fall as a fighting soldier. He was murdered brutally, in cold blood. Therefore, suant to the laws of this land, the laws of the Celts, it is decreed – a life for a life……..”

Kai feels as if the wet grass is going to rush up and claim him when he tumbles. Tumbles and sobs and shatters. Only Llud’s most stringent warrior training keeps him upright.

Arthur.

Hollow-cheeked and pale and lean. His studded brown tunic still far too cumbersome for his gaunt frame. Midnight-blue eyes purposeful and staunch. Approaching slowly from the palisade and pronouncing Merlin’s judgement as he comes.

Arthur’s tone may be quiet and sober, yet his decree resounds across the dawn meadow as if hailed by trumpets.

Arthur of the West has returned to his people –and to his Kai.

Beside him Kai hears Tugram release his bated breath. Determinedly Tugram forces the Saxon to his knees and tightens his grip on the rope tether.

Halting a few feet away, Arthur’s gaze meets Kai’s, fixed and steady. He glances at the assembled soldiers - his loyal soldiers - and raises his voice. “Yes, a life for a life. Not in vengeance, but upholding justice and honouring both law and remembrance.”

Then resolutely Arthur nods.

Kai’s sweep of his axe is as clean as a butcher’s……………

  
From where they stand amid the oaks next to the river, they can see the red-gold flames of the funeral pyre crackling and thick smoke flying high, straight up into the brilliantly-blue morning sky. Tugram is supervising the task, shouting instructions and tramping briskly about. Overhead, the sun is burning away the last of the mist and the day promises calm and fair ahead.

“I really thought I’d lost you………we’d lost you……..” Kai sounds bone-weary and every breath is harsh and rough. Fuck, any minute he’s going to burst forth weeping and by Christ, if he starts he’ll never ever stop.

Arthur smiles softly and that’s all it takes. Truly, no-one cries quite as wholeheartedly as Kai – or as beautifully.

Reaching out, Arthur tenderly brushes Kai’s sodden cheeks with his thumb. Moving closer to cup Kai’s face in his palm and tip their foreheads together. Tangling gentle fingers amid Kai’s hair to sooth his big brother’s tremulous shudders.

Fiercely, Kai curls his hand through the open laces of Arthur’s shirt. Sliding his wrist along the sleek skin in a blissful caress and closing his eyes against the hot tears that threaten to spill anew.

Winding his arms around Kai’s waist, Arthur murmurs quietly, his voice gone thick and tattered. “Shh, my heart, I’m here……..everything is as it should be……..no more uncertainty and no more wild unrest and no more anguish………..I’m here……”

“I woke this sunrise with a name on my lips………..my brother’s name………..your name Kai…………Llud never had the chance to hold out his hand to his brother and lift him to safety………. Just as your love and your faith and your loyalty have lifted me…..”

Kai smiles, fresh tears drenching his cheeks - and Arthur wraps his fingers, warm and wide, at the base of Kai’s neck and rocks Kai like something infinitely sweet and immeasurably precious. …………

  
Since Lenni is up in the healer’s hut tending to Conn, I chivalrously decide to start tending our noonday meal – a chivalrous act indeed when you possess the cooking skills of a slipshod water-rat. So I’m desperately trying to make my stodgy deer stew appear slightly appetizing – perhaps add turnips, perhaps add cabbage………best add turnips and cabbage and a good handful of peas – and worrying myself rickety over Arthur when Kai comes pitching headlong into the longhouse. Breathless and flushed and it’s obvious to me that he’s been weeping. Luckily Llud has taken the children quail-trapping. Apart from Shannyn who’s sleeping in the girls’ bedroom nook, I’m alone.

Oh holy fuck…………my heart hammers and I turn to ice.

Still gasping, Kai manages a few ragged words. “Guess what Arthur’s doing?” I clasp the wooden spoon with sweaty palms and frantically shake my head. More mute in this moment than Lenni will ever be.

Suddenly, Kai’s grin is beaming stars and freckled sunshine and sparkling moonglow – only much much brighter and boundlessly better.

“Arthur’s barrelling out some indolent sentries and giving them such a tongue-lashing that they’ll be blubbering into their mead for weeks.”

Laughing, Kai swings me off my feet and spins me around until we’re both dizzy with joy…..

Therefore, it may startle you to learn that when Arthur appears a few hours later he’s greeted by an apple being flung at his handsome black head. Though I can claim in mitigation that it is a very old, small apple – one of those from the basket destined for horse feed – and that I deliberately aim several feet off target. It bounces innocently on the wicker wall and lands inoffensively amid the rushes.

Arthur merely glances at my awry barrage and raises a curious dark eyebrow at me. What else is left for a completely smitten girl to do? I stammer and stutter: “Because you…… because I………. because we ………..everything………oh……….”

Then I bury my face in his chest as he cradles me close and whispers against my hair. “Do you know why I’m glad you’re mine? Why I love you so deeply? Because no-one else in the world would welcome me home by hurling a withered windfall at me………..I was always coming back to you Rowena, always………..I simply lost my way for a time …………. And now I’m even happier – peering into our cauldron I see that you’ve prepared us a singular quagmire for our dinner…..”

It’s lovely that Arthur has loosened his studded tunic and it has fallen open – the leather is a little rough and it’s much nicer to weep all over his soft linen shirt…….

  
Llud typically does not indulge any grand gestures when he acknowledges the task Kai and Arthur have undertaken today. Justice has been served and treasured memories have been honoured and vengeance has been spurned. Yet, without spectacle or sham – and so does Llud offer his gratitude.

When he returns from walking the palisade, he quietly pours two cups of adder’s sting and hands one to each of his sons. “Thank you for your succour and your strength. I am beholden to you both.” – and we know that Llud really means ‘I love you.’

Just as later I leave something by Arthur’s supper bowl to tell him………..well, what it would be difficult to find words for, even if I could speak, for how can I express my indebtedness that he has made Kai’s heart soar afresh?

The token I leave is pale lavender-grey. Silky and fine.

A heron’s feather. Since, for the Celts, they symbolize self-determination and courage. Representing our ability to press forward throughout life and move swiftly when the time is right.

Discovering it there, Arthur smiles gently and blows me a kiss.

Alighting upon my cheek like the truest promise.

Brother to sister……………friend to friend……………bestowed and received with perfect love and understanding……….

  
Tonight Llud has thrown apple logs on the fire and they burn steady and fragrant. Beside the hearth, Kaitlin and Maeve are busy playing with the jointed wooden dolls Kai carved for them last winter while Llud gazes contentedly into the flames. Over at the table, the boys are having fun at knucklebones and Lenni is preparing tomorrow’s chicken broth. Kai is carefully binding his axe and Rowena is suckling Shannyn and our bellies are full of her idiosyncratic deer stew – because, fortuitously, there was enough left over for evening supper.

Gazing around, I’m reminded anew that I’m the richest man alive.

With the cleverest wife who soon murmurs. “Darling, I think you and Kai should put the boys to bed. If Theo wins a third time, there’s bound to be an uproar.”

And if my Kai yawns any wider, he’ll crack a bone – but then it’s been a long, hard journey to tonight’s serenity.

Inside the sleeping chamber, Theo and Cedric and Luc go to feed the squirrels behind the corner curtain. I stoke the fire, grinning to myself as Kai somewhat mournfully peers into Vala’s old looking glass and frowns. Lenni’s diligent barbering having bared what he would much rather remain concealed.

So that when we lay among his sheepskins together, I playfully nip on one enticing white lobe and laugh. “Big brother, don’t look so vexed. Lenni and I have told you a thousand times what comely ears you have.” Kai sighs forlornly. “You can both try and be as flattering as you like – they’re definitely odd and decidedly askew. I suppose errant ears could be a quirk of my Saxon blood kin, thank the gods then I have three children with orderly Celtic ears…………..though if a certain wondrous Celt presently spidering his fingers across my throat would be kind enough to kiss me once……..or twice………..or even thrice…….. I might be slightly solaced……”

Therefore I do – thrice twice over and a few times more – and judging by Kai’s happy, husky chuckle, worthwhile solacing it truly be.

Until we’re interrupted by an elfin laugh from the direction of the boys’ pallets. Theo still drifting on the edge of slumber. “Uncle Arthur? I’m really glad that you’ve become yourself again.”

Yes, there are very sound reasons why Kai has dubbed him a stripling sage………

Tenderly I smile. “I’m glad I’m me again too. Now straight to sleep, Theo, my wise little snowflake.”

Yawning once more, Kai nestles his head against my shoulder. Ah……..I’m sure there was something other than mead in that last cup Lenni poured for him. Only blessed dreams tonight.

He closes his eyes and nuzzles my cheek. “And if you had to reckon what finally let you find your way home sweetheart……..?”

His lips on my skin feel like honeyed sunshine. “You …….. Rowena ……… Lenni ……… Llud ………..the children …………..the village ………. justice ………..courage ……. stars ………kisses …. .….Merlin’s memories ………..you……….”

I’m about to tell my Kai how much I love him when I see that he’s fallen asleep - beautiful and serene, ears and all.

Not that it actually matters – since my Kai already, always, knows.

  
Apple Blossom - Epilogue 

The wind is sweet off the estuary today Llywie

Spring has come in a headlong rush

And above where you lie the apple blossom is already fragrant on the bough.

Look, I’ve brought someone for you to meet

Beautiful isn’t she!

Funny how things unfold eh? 

Because here I hold a Shannyn, laughing in my arms,

Yet she’s not your child or even mine

But Arthur’s newest daughter.

Her father’s off scouting with Kai,

Hale again, fierce again, himself again.

Another of life’s precious miracles.

Rest easy Llywie – all’s well

Until we’re together once more

I love you brother mine.


End file.
